


51 Percent

by marchh



Series: 51 percent [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John is pre-med, M/M, Magical Realism, Mycroft is still MysteriousTM, Rated m for murder not porn, Slow Build, University AU, University!Sherlock, barista!jim, coffee shop AU, more tags to come, to some extent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchh/pseuds/marchh
Summary: In a world where your status is largely linked to how much magic you have on a scale up to 50%, Sherlock Holmes is an anomaly at 0%.Yet, Mycroft Holmes, at 49%, is the one who is constantly labeled a disappointment.One day, he meets the strangest man running a 24-hour coffee shop, and for the first time in his life someone sees him beyond the number.Then people start dying.





	1. 0. Prologue

Mycroft Holmes has been a perennial disappointment to his family.

From the moment Mycroft was born, there were high expectations set upon him. The Holmes bloodline boasted many great and accomplished magic users, and they expected much of the same from Mycroft.

Excitement was in the air on the Holmes firstborn’s birth date, and relatives from near and afar came to witness it. They assumed clouds of magic would welcome the auspicious birth, and envelope the child as he came into the world, much as with Uncle Rudy and Cousin Sherrinford the generation prior.

Instead, the air was still and stagnant, and baby Mycroft was completely untouched by magic even as he was laid in his mother’s arms for the first time.

The room was silent, save for Mycroft’s loud cries, and that heavy silence quickly permeated the rest of the estate.

Rooms had been prepared for the onslaught of visitors for the auspicious date; but afterwards, not a single one stayed.

A few of the lower magic holders tried to reassure the new mother that the infant was not a defect. After all, magic doesn’t set in for life until a child’s fifth birthday. That was a fact. Whether or not magic chose to surround a baby was, of course, a good sign of how much magic the child could eventually wield, but there was no certainty that what Mycroft was lacking now would never be made up. Babies couldn’t even absorb magic into their bloodstream until the age of two.

Their trembling smiles and fearful eyes only made the nursing mother feel worse.

But they weren’t wrong.

Shortly before Mycroft’s second birthday, the field around him was just electric. The magic was so pure there almost seemed a blue film around his entire being, and the air fizzled when you got near. 

The parents had him tested early, of course, even though early tests were no guarantee.

“At this rate, Mycroft could well be a 50% holder!” one pediatric magic consultant told them. “That would be the first in many generations in the family, wouldn’t it?”

The parents were ecstatic; 50% was the maximum upper limit of magic a human being could safely hold. There were old wives tales and urban legends of people being born under abnormal circumstances or contracting some horrible curse late in life, resulting in higher percentages. Those stories all ended the same way: death and madness.

No, 50% was the perfect number. It was rare, exalted, and everything they now expected from Mycroft.

That day was the worst day of Mycroft’s life, for it sealed his fate as a disappointment.

From the ages of 2 to 5, children are rapidly absorbing live magic—different from atmospheric, or objective, magic—just as they hungrily absorb knowledge and their surroundings. 

After the second birthday, it’s safe for children to take a blood test to determine what percentage of what runs through their veins is magic. Keen young parents who have the means to do so will often order many of these tests, hoping to predict their child’s final number before they reach the age of 5. Most physicians will advise the parents that it isn’t necessary, as the numbers can fluctuate during this age range, but they understand the need to know. 

Mycroft, as expected, progressed rapidly once he hit his second birthday. By the time he was 3, he tested at nearly 40%. He was already far ahead of the curve, and surely on the right path to 50%.

But by the time he was 4, the rate at which he was progressing had slowed. Months later, his parents had a pediatrician who was licensed to perform such tests on call. The last month of Mycroft’s life before his path was sealed, the last month before his fifth birthday, they had hired a live-in doctor.

On the morning of his fifth birthday, instead of presents or a party, he was administered a test.

On the morning of his fifth birthday, he was declared 49%, and the forms were made official; signed and stamped.

At age 5, Mycroft had broken his parents’ hearts. 

It would be over another year before they decided to have a second child, still reeling from their last failure.

By all accounts, 49% was no small feat. There were only about a dozen people in the world at 50%, one being the Queen. The vast majority of the world’s population fell within the mid-20s range, with percentages at either end of the spectrum significantly smaller. 

But everything had been set up for Mycroft to obtain perfection, and it didn’t happen.

Two years later, a younger brother was born.

Mycroft loved Sherlock from the moment he came into the world; the vast, swirling clouds of dreamy blue glow that seeped into the room only made everything that much more spectacular. But he was sure that even without it, he would have felt the same. He ached to hold him as grown-ups clambered around, trying to get a better look at the lucky baby, but it wasn’t until late that night, when all the adults were off having a drink in the drawing room, that he was able to introduce himself to his brother.

He’d had to find a box to stand on in order to look over the edge of the crib, but the crick he developed in his neck was worth it. Mummy didn’t even tell him off when she found Mycroft curled up on the floor of the nursery the next morning.

Sherlock turned turned out to be a completely different kind of disappointment for the family.

Not wanting to leave too much to chance this time around, a third sibling was conceived only a year after Sherlock. 

The family—the extended family—was optimistic for the little, chubby boy who went everywhere in a cloud of perpetual static. They were even happier when Eurus entered the world one year later in much of a similar fashion.

But on Sherlock’s second birthday, he didn’t test as well as everyone had hoped. His numbers were in the single digits, and that was an embarrassment for a family as old as the Holmes’s. Mycroft didn’t mind, but no one cared about what Mycroft thought.

When Sherlock was 3, and Eurus turned 2, it seemed celebration was imminent once again. Eurus scored even higher than Mycroft did as a toddler, and if even he had already been on track toward 50, surely she would have a chance now. Sherlock’s progress had picked up as well, and everyone seemed content he might manage a good mid-40s.

Two years later, everything changed. As Eurus neared her fourth birthday, her results were fluctuating wildly. Wanting to stave off the stress that they endured with Mycroft, the parents isolated the family for some time, entertaining no company for the next several months at the estate.

They also wanted to keep everything quiet, because every so often, Eurus would test above 50%. It would always go down, back to 46%, or 48%, or even a 42%. But then the next day it would be 57%, 59%, even 62%.

Anything above 50% meant madness for the person, and chaos for those around them, as they would by law be institutionalized. Too many abhorrents on society had been these “inhumans” in the past. The realm of 50%-plus was not for humans; they were magical creatures and species of fae, and those without a heart or soul, and not to be trusted.

Shortly before Eurus turned 4, she began to wield her magic—something thought to be impossible for children under the age of 5. She threw out fire globes and magic whips with her chubby little fingers, she made the silverware float, and sung her lullabies back into her mother’s head.

At age 4, Eurus tested 70%.

Then she let loose so much magic it sent shockwaves throughout the family plot, and burned down the estate.

Mycroft and his parents managed to shield themselves through it, getting out with trauma only of the emotional sort.

Sherlock and Eurus were not so lucky.

In the explosion, it seemed the magic had burned Eurus up along with everything it touched.

Sherlock was knocked out cold when they found him, on a patch of deadened ground. 

Doctors examined everyone in the tragic aftermath, then broke the unexpected news to the parents.

“Your son is...a zero?” an emergency worker hesitantly asked.

Mycroft remembered Mummy snapping her head around, eyes wide at the paramedic, telling him he must be mistaken. 

But no, he wasn’t. The blast had somehow rendered Sherlock completely magic-less.

The next several weeks leading up to Sherlock’s fifth birthday were nail-bitingly tense, as their parents waited for the magic to return to their youngest son ounce by ounce. They had already lost the daughter they put so much hope in. They would not lose beloved Sherlock.

It didn’t happen. Sherlock’s fifth birthday came and went, leaving him at 0%. A Zero.


	2. 1. The Spider's Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes home to an empty home and emptier fridge, then stumbles out into the night and finds a 24-hour cafe that was most certainly not there before, where barista names his drinks silly things like The Blood of Sacrificed Virgins (it’s not bad though)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter's been revamped!! Sorry to those who caught a glimpse of it a day or two ago---I totally jumped the gun on that

_Thirteen years later._

 

Mycroft Holmes sat in the surveillance hub, fingers steepled before him, in complete concentration. He was the image of cool and contemplative in the midst of the roaring gunfire and shouts that surrounded the room, completely calm as the watercolor-light imagery displayed itself on the wall before disappearing just as quickly, the residual imaging being transferred from a continent away. It was the best they could manage, given the circumstances. Not that Mycroft minded the lack of high-definition visibility, per se.

 

One agent down, four left still holding their ground.

 

“Drive in hand,” came a voice, slightly distorted, from his left.

 

They had enough ammo to make it to getaway vehicle, Mycroft calculated, but only just.

 

Truthfully, he loathed taking lead on missions taking place in overt places of conflict. Too much chaos. Explosions meant charred bodies and dislocated parts. Gunshots meant blood, brains, guts. He preferred to take care of matters before it got to the point where you needed to send a man with a gun.

 

Combat zones, ironically also sometimes called neutral zones, were messy things, places where most magic was rendered null and people resorted to brute force and good old-fashioned violence—an expensive commodity in the modern and developed world.

 

Not that Mycroft had much say in his assignments at this point. He may have rose to the position in record time, but he was still just three years on the job, and everyone knew it. Everyone knew who he was, because even in the secret service, new 49%s were few enough that people _noticed_.

 

And he was good enough at his job that he had been called in to clean up after a botched infiltration. They knew the enemy ambush was coming, and Mycroft had weighed the chances of survival for the team during the briefing. Five members, none indispensable, as all the information was on a cursed drive. He only needed to get one of them out to get the information, his supervisor had implied in not so many words. Really, though, if he got creative, he would only have the agent far enough to employ a spellbreak, he didn't need to get anyone out at all.

 

And this was, largely in part, why his department sat behind doors that wouldn't open for anyone with a ranking below 45%. A less sophisticated magic wielder would have a harder time seeing this through, needing to ensure safe passage home for at least one agent in order to retrieve the drive.

 

But there was something wrong here.

 

No, not just the fact that the mission was botched and they were down to four field agents battling time as well as firearms in a mad dash to the edge of the combat zone.

 

The fact that it had happened so swiftly after they were within reach of the information they came for. It reeked of treachery.

 

He just wasn't sure if it was Smith or Weiss quite yet. One had the financial incentive and the other was a self-important little shit with a short temper.

 

Hancock had the drive in hand now, and Leigh was covering from the back.

 

They were only a few feet from the edge of the zone.

 

So Mycroft still had agents to spare.

 

“Agent,” he said into the earpieces of Smith and Weiss. “Shoot Hancock and take the drive, we’ve just confirmed he’s the traitor.”

 

Two guns went up but Smith hesitated, stopping short, as the team hadn't been told about a traitor. It was a mere half-second, but it gave Mycroft the last clue he needed.

 

Weiss, on the other hand, hadn't hesitated at all, and Hancock fell dead. Uncharacteristic.

 

“So it was money, then,” Mycroft murmured sardonically.  “I suppose that's as good a reason as any.“

 

Leigh whipped his head around, and Mycroft switched his comms over just in time.

 

“No worries, Leigh, we’re just taking care of some loose ends,” he said.

 

Then, to both Leigh and Smith he said, “Shoot Weiss with a tranquilizer, and let’s bring him in for questioning. Pick up the drive now, Hancock isn't going anywhere. Hurry now.”

 

He was mildly aware that in making the solution easier for himself, he’d rather inconvenienced the agents as they now had to lug back this unconscious body in the midst of crossfire. He could have waited to expose Weiss after they’d returned, but he didn’t much care for all that extra scheming and theater.

 

“Take the path to your left but ignore the vehicles. You'll find a broken column in the city rubble not three meters away, and once you find the inscription and touch it, it'll bring you back to base.”

 

》》》

 

Mycroft snapped his fingers, and finished unpacking.

 

His first real flat, in the sense that it was real estate owned solely by him, had all the amenities and gravitas fit for a person of his station and position the world, he thought as he looked around the now-furnished space.

 

Then Mycroft frowned. Now he just had to figure out how to make it _feel_ like home. In essence, it was already designed and decorated as he thought a sanctuary for himself very well should be. But physically he had yet to accustom himself to the tangible space.

 

It was the perfect location; upscale neighborhood yet still discrete, and—most importantly—within throwing distance of Sherlock’s new university.

 

But now it was already past midnight, and Mycroft couldn’t sleep. The alienness of a new setting didn’t help.

 

The other anxiety keeping him up was the thought of seeing his younger brother tomorrow—or, well, much later today. He had both his congratulations and warnings to offer, because Sherlock was in a very precarious position here. Not that either would be well heeded. He looked forward to seeing his brother again nonetheless.

 

The past three years, working his way up from the very bottom—or as last rung as anyone could ever possibly be wielding a magic rank that puts you into the top half percent of the population—had been a dream. For the first time in his life, he was fully appreciated for the breadth of what he could accomplish, and personal feelings never got in anyone’s way. 

 

Even in school, there were preconceived notions to who he was based on his either his family name or magical rank. But in a covert agency where nearly everyone entered from the top of their field, he had to prove himself every step of the way—and this was a field where his successes were duly recognized as such. Starting from nothing meant he had the advantage of not having the deck stacked against him, as with everywhere else in his life.

 

But the past three years had also been terribly lonely, honing himself into one of the agency’s most effective members.

 

Not that Mycroft would ever say so, nor did he have anyone to confide in, but it wasn't that he was trying to rise to the top. He meant it honestly when he told his parents he was going into a career of service. He wanted to belong, to be part of the seamless mechanism that made the world run smoothly. It just so happened he was made to be a very crucial part of the whole.

 

Officially, the agency was so secretive and buried in the annals of government operations that there was no listed department name. Mostly, it was referred to as the forensic accounting arm of the taxes division in the Revenue and Customs authority, rather than the more obvious Defense Ministry, or any other official ministry that would have been under closer public scrutiny. Internally, it was jokingly referred to as The Agency. It was covert, efficient, and took care of anything the Government did not want the people to see, hear, or otherwise know about.

 

Individually, operatives were usually such high-ranked individuals that they had very different titles assigned to them, or complete cover identities. No one would otherwise believe that dozens of people in the high-40s range were mere pencil pushers checking over tax forms. Mycroft himself was some assistant treasury secretary of some sort. He’d recently been “officially” promoted, and had to have new cards printed.

 

He dragged his hand down his face and stepped into the kitchen, realizing as he opened his fridge that it would be empty.

 

He’d have to have the secure wireless set up tomorrow so he could transfer in necessities like food without all the hassle.

 

When the rift appeared in the north Arctic two centuries ago, magic bursting out of the open wound and flooding the world overnight, the developed world had already been on the path to modernity and nothing—not even the magic universally known across cultures from old mythologies—could change that course.

 

As a result, cities like London reaped the benefits of the greatest minds in tech and magic working in tandem. London, like Tokyo, Paris, Hong Kong, New York City, and so on—these were places of perpetual bright lights, the most elaborate fashions, and, by the 21st century, places where there was a gadget or spell for any possible thing one could dream of.

 

Yet one could still be stuck with minor inconveniences—like being out of tea bags in one’s own kitchen.

 

As much as it chafed his sensibilities, Mycroft decided he would take a walk and brave the late-night/early-morning streets in search of one of those convenience kiosks where he could get a sub-par cup of tea or coffee.  

 

Instead, Mycroft found, after taking an absent-minded turn, blinking neon lights that spelled out the letters The Spider’s Web, complete with a flickering little critter dangling from a wispy LED thread into a chalk-painted steaming mug.

 

A coffee shop open at 1 in the morning was unusual, but perhaps not unheard of, Mycroft surmised, pushing open the door.

 

It was, as expected, quiet. It was also a surprisingly large piece of real estate for Central London, if on an unassuming side street. It nagged at Mycroft as an incongruity, because it did not look like this shop had a large and loyal enough following to make up for the lack  of foot traffic on the block. Perhaps they were banking on becoming a popular destination with the university students once school opened, via word of mouth. It was a new shop, after all, outfitted entirely with only vintage furnishings.

 

The only other patron was a balding old man snoozing at a corner table, drooling into his newspaper. A street sweeper of some sort, on his break.

 

Mycroft steered clear and gingerly approached the counter. The only person on duty was a young man, a bit closer to Sherlock’s age than his own, with dark hair and dark eyes.

 

“Welcome. What can I getcha?” he asked, smacking his gum, flashing Mycroft a Customer Service Smile.

 

Mycroft’s eyes drifted to whimsical chalkboard menu hanging overhead. Beside the standard coffees and teas were a

 

list of specialty concoctions with ridiculous names like “True Love’s Kiss,” and “Morning Dew,” and “Newt’s Eyes,” and “The Blood of Sacrificed Virgins.”

 

He pursed his lips and pointed to the specials.

 

“Does anyone really order these?” Mycroft asked.

 

The barista shrugged, and up until this point Mycroft hadn’t actually been interested in the answer.

 

But then he heard him lie.

 

“Duno, just started working here,” the barista replied, coming up to lean on the counter with a sense of comfort belying the words.

 

Mycroft only just stopped himself from frowning. He’d deduced the man was not just a barista but also the owner, if not a stakeholding manager at the very least, and he couldn’t understand why a young man would want to downplay any such business accomplishments—that was suspicious. Moreover, it was a disguised half truth, because as a new shop, _no one_ could have been working here long. Odd choice of words. Seeing as it wasn’t immediately important, Mycroft filed the information away for later.

 

“An earl grey, please, takeaway,” he said instead, pulling out his wallet.

 

The barista snuck a pointed look at him.

 

“You’re new here too, aren’t you?” he asked, handing over the change.

 

He did frown this time. Mycroft detested talking about his personal life. Especially to strangers.

 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” he said.

 

“Hey,” the barista said and raised his hands placatingly, shrugging again. “No worries,” he added, handing Mycroft’s cup over.

 

He took it and left.

 

Mycroft was halfway into his apartment when he finally took a sip of the steaming beverage—and had to reel back in shock. He scrambled to rip the plastic lid off the cheap traveler’s cup and peered inside, giving it another sniff.

 

“The bloody idiot gave me _decaf_?” he whispered to himself in horror.

 

Insulted as he was, twenty minutes later it was a blessing, because he was in bed, and asleep.

 

》》》

 

Mycroft rose the next morning, paid his brother an unwanted visit, and then made his way toward the office. Or, well, one of the many offices he had access to for his various assignments.

 

As he opened the door to one tele-booth on the street outside Sherlock’s school (used both for telecommunications and teleportation), he gave pause. It was unlikely the offending barista from last night would be working both the late shift and a day one, but the cafe was a mere three blocks, and Mycroft now harbored a niggling curiosity.

 

He stepped into the booth, and instead of the office, pictured the view of the cafe from across the street. Less than a second later he  reopened the door out onto a completely different sidewalk three blocks from where he was, looking out at exactly the scene he had pictured. It was a benefit of his rank he rarely bothered appreciating, the near-instant travel.

 

The door opened silently, he noticed, and there were considerably more patrons this time. As he predicted, most of them were of the college variety.

 

And, as he predicted, the man from last night was not there. He ordered a strong blend from a young woman with striking blue eyes that nearly looked green from afar and left promptly.

 

》》》

 

“Here, take a look at this.”

 

Mycroft had just stepped into the London Control Room, and moved across the room so as to stand beside Thomas Keightley, his direct superior. Titles held little importance in the top tier of the agency, as every agent at this level had a formidable reputation that spoke volumes on its own.

 

The two of them stood before the large, wall-to-wall heat map that was currently depicting the bottom quarter of the island. Threads of light created a sort of nervous system across England—it showed all the magic. Every teleportation spell and absent minded stirring of a forgotten pot left some residual imaging behind, and it was all visible here.

 

Certain spots, like magic universities where students had practical work and transportation hubs, were regularly brightly lit. Other areas like suburban neighborhoods that the standard, speckled glow.

 

It was really the dead zones that raised suspicion, because then it was obvious that someone had something to hide.

 

“You were right, they’re up to something here,” Keightley said, tapping a spot just south of them.

 

Mycroft looked. The patterns covering the spot weren’t irregular ones, but they were irregular for a where it was. Namely, a shopping district shouldn’t look like a suburb.

 

“Now we’ve just got to send in a team to figure out what—”

 

“They’re smuggling something in,” Mycroft cut in.

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t know, sir, but it can’t be the usual. Not drugs, not firearms, no—they’ve gone through a lot of trouble to bring whatever this in from various parts of the world,” Mycroft said.

 

“And how would you know that?” Keightley asked, but not in disbelief. He knew the young agent had good instincts, but he seemed to have the damnedest time explaining the evidence in a manner that would hurry people to action.

 

“The location, obviously, close enough to the ports and rails but no so close as to raise suspicion,” Mycroft trailed off, frowning. “And this isn’t the central holding point either. It’s not big enough, they’ll divvy it up and in a day or less it’ll spread across the island to who knows where.”

 

“We best send in that team after all.”

 

》》》

The clock had struck midnight by the time Mycroft was on his way home, and his thoughts drifted toward the rude barista from the hipster cafe. It wouldn’t be a long detour, so he made it.

 

Part of it was the lingering adrenaline from working a particularly perplexing case they’d yet to crack; an underground smuggling ring trafficking a new hybrid substance that could prove dangerous.

 

Until several hours ago, the government didn’t even know of this ring’s existence, but Mycroft had figured it out. He’d figured out the what and the how. All that was left to do now was to figure out the who and the why. It was going to be an interesting week.

 

It was, this time, fully empty barring the same young man behind the counter. The specials had changed slightly, the Morning Dew swapped out for Tears of Unicorns.

 

The barista spotted him immediately, and Mycroft strode over.

 

“I’ve half a mind to demand a refund after you botched my order yesterday,” he commented. “I can’t imagine you’ll be open much longer with that kind of service.”

 

“But you were back this morning,” he replied, taunting him, eyebrows raised.

 

 _No more Customer Service facade now, I see,_ Mycroft thought to himself.

 

It was jarring this unnamed man knew that. Mycroft looked down at his shirt and frowned; they wore no name tags here. Seeming to have read his thoughts, the barista stuck a hand out to shake.

 

“Name’s Jim,” he offered. After a seemingly thoughtful pause, he added, “Jim Mann.”

 

Mycroft stared for a long moment, then finally returned the offered handshake.

 

“Mycroft Holmes,” he replied, oddly swept up by this strange man’s pace.

 

There was no recognition in his eyes, but the next thing he said was, “So you’re a spook?”

 

Mycroft ran his hand down his tie. There was no way he'd really been made _this_ easily. “I beg your pardon?”

 

Jim shrugged yet again, it seemed a habitual gesture, and started fiddling with the porcelain ware beside the espresso machine, setting a cup atop a saucer.

 

“The suit, the hours, the many, _many_ government buildings in the area.”

 

He started brewing a pot of something both smokey and floral. At Mycroft’s blank and disapproving stare, he frowned a bit.

 

“No? If not a spook, then what?” Jim asked, letting the dried leaves steep.

 

“Just a minor government official,” Mycroft replied. “We do tax investigations, forensic accounting, that sort of thing,” he added after a beat. 

 

"From what I've seen, the intelligence agencies aren't as cracked up as the films and novels make them out to be. I've seen their budgets," he added with a wry smile. "Doubt they can afford those flashy gadgets."

 

“Ah. I’ve a soft spot for figures myself,” Jim replied, not looking at him but instead pouring a cup of the strong looking tea into a white cup before pushing it over to Mycroft. “Any exciting cases of fraud recently? Let me guess, Prime Minister embezzling? You’re up late."

 

“What is this?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the questions and accepting the cup nonetheless, taking a seat at the bar beside the counter.

 

“The Blood of Sacrificed Virgins,” Jim said very seriously.

 

Mycroft paused, with the cup halfway to his lips, and gave him a look.

 

“It’s surprisingly calming, despite the titillating name. But still invigorating. You’ll wake up tomorrow feeling like a god who’s been gifted a feast the night before,” Jim said without guile.

 

“You come up with these yourself,” Mycroft said, not a question.

 

“I’ve time to kill,” Jim replied easily.

 

“So,” Mycroft said, placing the cup down after a sip, feeling a bit off balance that this Jim fellow seemed to know more about him than the other way around. He could always have him investigated, but that seemed a bit petty and paranoid given that he’d met this man twice, in his own store no less. “Why a cafe?”

 

Jim slowly started wiping down the counter and bar top, seemingly planning his words as he answered slowly.

 

“I like to be around people,” he finally said.

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, and pointedly glanced around the empty establishment.

 

“Granted, not the best shift, I know,” Jim said too brightly, before turning a smirk at him. “But I wouldn’t have met you otherwise, would I?”

 

“I’m hardly company,” Mycroft replied.

 

“I suppose,” Jim started cryptically. “You’ve been hiding in plain sight for so long you’ve forgotten how to be present.”

 

Mycroft set his cup down so quickly he startled even himself. Jim’s eyes flicked up to his.

 

“Sorry, was that too invasive?” he asked, almost genuinely hesitant. “Clearly I’m not meant to keep company either.”

 

“No need to apologize,” Mycroft said, standing and pulling his coat back on. “I suppose it is the nature of baristas and bartenders to watch and observe those crossing their floors, and making up stories for each of the souls as they pass.”

 

“Good night,” he added curtly, turning to leave.

 

He was loath to realize not long after that his dreams were filled with scenes of Bacchanalian rituals, knowing dark eyes, and that he did, in fact, wake up the next morning feeling uncharacteristically refreshed.

 

》》》

 

At around 8 o’clock in the morning Mycroft made the decision not to return to the cafe of the prying barista. Jim.

 

But by midday, the thought occurred to him, _What is really so bad about being seen?_

 

The fact that he kept secrets as a career, for one, he admitted. He’d gotten so good at hiding that he decided, very early on, to do it professionally. And now it was just who he was. There was nothing wrong with that.

 

It was more than who he was, he told himself as an afterthought. It was his duty to Queen and country now. Mycroft had always been the responsible sort.

 

An hour later, Mycroft gave in to curiosity, and did a security background check.

 

What he found was that Jim Mann was, frankly, nothing to write home about.

 

Perhaps the single most interesting-slash-unusual item in his file were the circumstances surrounding his birth; namely, that he was abandoned as an infant.

 

The rest of the story is horribly banal: He’s a 23%, sitting squarely in the average range. He had an average public school record, no criminal history, no accomplishments of note, and acquaintances of only the very average sort. Shortly after he turned 19, he inherited some money from an estranged great-aunt, and took a gap year where he went backpacking across the continent. Then he obtained a very average vocational degree, and eventually opened up this shop presumably with the remains of his inheritance.

 

Mycroft was almost certain this background was a fake.

 

He _felt_ like a 23%, sure, but that was nothing definitive. Those in the lower ranges had few defenses to mask how much magic they held against a more sensitive person. But those in the upper limits were adept at concealing how much magic they were really holding. Nulling their presence in front of another person was useful in some cases, and even standard perhaps, but most learned easily to mimic a specific number as necessary.

 

_Hiding in plain sight, indeed._

 

By 8 p.m., Mycroft had prevented a civil war from breaking out in the north, and realized he missed dinner. He debated skipping the meal entirely, Sherlock’s parting words from two days ago still stinging, then opted for some soup for company as he stayed a while longer to look into the smuggled minerals.

 

According to the evidence he had at hand, there had recently been an influx of imported grenaline (G6O5) within their borders. The benign substance was, up until recently, commonly used in the coating of everyday magical items and usually of little importance.

 

But scarcely a decade ago, the material had been banned from use in commercial products, because the process it took to refine the metal into something usable was energy-sucking and pollution-ridden. It released noxious gases into the environment, and many a health scandal broke out in factories working with the stuff. It had for centuries, but it was only until several high-profile exposes were written on the matter that public opinion overruled pure business principles, and the material was declared unusable. 

 

But the sheer amount that had been transported and disappeared called for suspicion. It _was_ possible that someone was using it for the purpose of very cheaply manufacturing a variety of wares. But where would you find someone willing to take that risk? And the import operation itself couldn't have been cheap. Where were the profit margins in that? Unless a suspicious amount of expensive manufacturing surfaced, it was unlikely this was the real motive behind the trade.

 

So the techs in the lab had been grappling with possible illicit uses for the substance—when Mycroft remembered that it was once the main ingredient of an outdated method of transferring magic.

 

Nowadays, the preferred method was a sort of two-way intravenous device where both parties were linked up painlessly and, upon simultaneous consent by both parties, the magic would literally drain from one end of the tube to the other, and only the amount both parties consented upon. It was nearly a form of Bargaining; a power mere humans did not fully grasp and could not wield. The link itself was painless, but the process was grueling.

 

And illegal.

 

It was only permitted under the most specific circumstances, and those laws varied from country to country. Within the British Empire, only the royal family had the right to access such technology. It was how they could always ensure the sovereign on the throne was a 50%. The crowning always took place after a ceremonial transfusion. A literal handing over of the position.

 

But in the old days, back when magic was still, or once again, new to humans, people now thought of as shamans or witch doctors had devised more primitive, painful bloodwork rituals that involved many metals needles, most involving some refined form of grenaline for its conductive properties.

 

Mycroft stayed a while in his office, pulling together what evidence they had, trying to figure out what would happen next and where they could best intercept the ongoing crime.

 

Before he knew it, it was nearly 2 in the morning, and as if by reflex his thoughts went to the dark-eyed barista surrounded by his aromatic drinks with horrible names.

 

He decided not to fight it, and then made what had already become his daily detour on his way home.

 

It occured to Mycroft for not the first time that it was odd that the cafe had a silent door, but he supposed at this hour it didn’t matter much because there was no one else but Jim, who looked up from his book as soon as Mycroft stepped past the threshold.

 

“I thought I’d ran you off,” Jim said in lieu of a greeting.

 

Mycroft found himself taking a seat at the bar, a bit surprised at himself for feeling so at ease in the cafe.

 

“What do you think of magic ranks?” he asked, half hoping Jim would give a boring, uninformed answer fitting for his age and the liberal leanings that came with it. It would prove that Jim Mann was indeed Jim Mann, nothing more than a young barista who happened to come into enough money to allow him to work for himself and live comfortably for several more years. It would put Mycroft at ease to know that he was once again alone and adrift; something of a kingfisher hovering above a world of goldfish.

 

The question seemed to startle Jim, who had been pulling out another cup and teapot, and caused him to debate internally before he opened his mouth to answer.

 

“A bit hasty of us, I suppose, measuring magic across the board like that when we don’t even fully know, fully _appreciate_ what it does, what it _can_ do,” he finally replied, dumping a pinch of this and a teaspoon of that into the teapot’s strainer.

 

The answer was more cerebral than political, which Mycroft could appreciate, though it didn’t persuade him one way or another about what to think of “Jim Mann.”

 

“Oh? And what more would you study?” he tried.

 

Jim stared and, for a moment, Mycroft thought he saw a kind of darkness lurking behind those eyes. The same kind he sometimes caught a glimpse of in the mirror.

 

“Inhumans,” he responded simply.

 

Mycroft waited, but no elaboration came.

 

“I was about 10 or 12 when the child of a neighbor’s came of age,” Mycroft said, spinning his own family history into a more distant tale. “They said she was well over 50% even before she hit her birthday.”

 

“What happened?” Jim asked.

 

“The magic burned her up, and everything around it,” Mycroft replied. The real incident had been covered up very well in the aftermath, thanks to his uncle’s connections. “The house was nothing but a charred mess; everything was ash by the time I was allowed near it, once it was no longer a crime scene under investigation.”

 

He stared back as Jim scanned his face for signs that he was joking. Then Jim flushed the leaves with hot water.

 

“I assume inhumans would be rather hard to study, seeing as none of them live very long,” Mycroft continued.

 

Jim pursed his lips. “There must be other ways.”

 

“And anyway, I can’t understand how something as arbitrary as a couple of percentage points can wreak as much havoc as you’re implying. All we have are _rumors,_ like the story you’ve got, to go on,” he continued. “It’s not just the people either; if 50-plus is inhuman, what are fae? Magical creatures do exist, however secluded, and think of all we could learn if we could manage to study them.”

 

“That would be quite a boon,” Mycroft hummed.

 

Jim was a bit breathless as he continued. “For all that we claim we’ve advanced, we’re mere toddlers, no, _babies_ compared to the fully magical communities that exist, and it’s clear they do exist even if we can’t find them unless they want us to.”

 

“We know so little, and it’s such a _shame_ because of all the limits and _restraints_ we’ve shackled ourselves into,” Jim finished.

 

He poured out a cup of tea, something fresh smelling this time, and Mycroft looked upon the swirling, misty wisps that formed a little cyclone above his cup.

 

“What is it this time?” he asked.

 

“Dragon’s Breath, it’ll make you dream of your most personal trials, where you’ll have to face yourself, but you’ll come out the other side forged into something unbreakable,” Jim said, without missing a beat.

 

“I can’t imagine many people willingly choose to undergo such a dramatic event after coming into a cafe for a cuppa,” Mycroft intoned.

 

Jim grinned this time. “You’d be surprised.”

 

He finished his cup as Jim went back to his book in companionable silence.  

 

Mycroft wasn’t sure if he faced his deepest personal trials that night, but his dreams were aptly full of flames. The magic-wrought fire that brought Eurus and the family home down, the anger that seemed to burn through Jim in brief moments when he spoke of magic, and the niggling curiosity within himself that turned into a sprawling wildfire of insatiable hunger once he fed it.

 

》》》

 

There were some students of the theory of magic who liked to divide the study of magic into two part: old magic studies and new magic studies. Mycroft subscribed to this school of categorization himself.

 

Old magic studies denoted the “primitive” texts that appeared in the first seven decades after the rift appeared. Then, coinciding with the Enlightenment era, a sea change in thinking resulted in treatises and theories about the origins, applications, and possibilities of magic increased tenfold in just the next decade, and set off an unprecedented age of research.

 

The underlying theme in old magic was that, much like how people viewed God and nature, a force older than life itself, and to be revered as well as feared. It was boundless—and as such held the possibility of anything—and it was unconquerable—not something to be wielded lightly.

 

New magic posited that this was a resource, and that it was humanity’s duty to make the best use of it for the greater good. It was to be dissected, analyzed, categorized, understood, and—moreso in modern times than ever—put to use.

 

The chief criticism of this theory was not a criticism of the theory at all, so much as it was a veiled attack on the researchers and philosophers who subscribed to it, and who used it to suggest that in order for humans to become comfortable with such a force, we had to whittle it down, and make it banal.

 

》》》

 

The next night, he returned to what was quickly becoming his personal midnight haunt, and this time without hesitation. Jim seemed to have expected him too, only glancing up briefly from his book with a small smile when Mycroft entered through the door. They’d somehow already fallen into some pattern of familiarity.

 

If, a week ago, someone had told Mycroft he would have no qualms about a strange man, a possible fugitive even, mixing mystery drinks for him, he would have laughed his head right off.

 

“How does a barista get so interested in the science of magic, anyway?” he asked, taking his regular—he now already thought of it as regular—seat at the bar.

 

Jim flipped the book half closed, finger marking his page, so as to show Mycroft the cover. He already knew it was a book of fiction, some historical fiction story that had roots in Celtic mythologies, but he made to read the title off the offered cover anyway.

 

“I’m a romantic, obviously,” Jim replied. “Never turn down the chance to dream up a good fairy tale.”

 

It was a bit too dismissive for Mycroft.

 

“So you don’t believe any of it?” he pushed, and Jim looked surprised at that.

 

“Well…” he started, thoughtful. “I guess what I mean is I wouldn’t mind finding out. I’m open to believing. That’s what I mean.”

 

“Funny how, with works regarding fae, the more realistic an account is, the more it’s viewed as a horror story,” Mycroft mused. “It’s especially so with the modern works, which I suppose says a lot about us, considering we are, on average, made up of a quarter of what we so fear.”

 

Jim had started on another pot of tea now, and gave Mycroft a curious look.

 

“What is your rank?” he asked. It was a forward question, one Mycroft had every right to decline to answer, but he hesitated anyway. It wasn’t classified information at all, really, and some part of him longed to tell Jim everything.

 

“49%,” he said.

 

Jim let out a low whistle, looking appropriately surprised and impressed for someone of his (fake? But how much of it was fake?) average-range ranking. If there was anything genuine in that look, it might have been the microexpressions of real curiosity, and surprise that Mycroft answered honestly.

 

He poured a cup in front of Mycroft, who was surprised to find that it was a no-frills earl grey this time. It warmed his soul anyway.

 

“Bit dangerous, isn’t it?” Jim said seemingly out of nowhere. “If a 20-something dreams of having more magic, well, people say that’s just normal. Everyone wants to be one of you. But someone that close to 50, trying to get their hands on more magic, on _more_ , period? Tsk. Could get tricky…”

 

That was true, though Mycroft didn’t respond.

 

“I suppose that might be one reason you hide,” Jim crossed his arms on the counter, and scooted a bit closer. “I’ve been curious about that bit, you know. I guess this explains some of it.”

 

“Why would you possibly be curious about me?” Mycroft asked. He felt a bit dizzy, with lack of air. Had he forgotten to breathe?

 

“I have a feeling that, if you were to become your real self, you’d just positively wreak havoc on the world,” Jim answered, casual as anything.

 

It felt like an icy chill was rolling down his spine. That was the last thing he wanted to happen. Mycroft was the dutiful protector. He held together his family. He had full intentions of doing everything he could to hold together his country. That was his real self.

 

Yet.

 

Yet, there was a little voice from deep, deep inside him that was sang out: _Yes!_

 

Mycroft knew he had to leave. Whoever this Jim Mann was, he was utterly hypnotic, and given time, could only further compromise Mycroft.

 

He gave Jim a small smile instead, and set his empty cup down.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Mycroft asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

》》》

 

It was evening, and Mycroft was back in his flat. He’d opted not to work through the night today, but still intended on making it to his regular talks with Jim.

 

He found himself standing in front of his second bookshelf, the one filled with books he only read rarely and for pleasure. Mycroft had a wonderful edition of a very old treatise on magic, written nary a few decades after the rift broke open. It was a fanciful text, with many ominous and nearly worshipful passages, and much of the theories it espoused had since been disproven. It was an utterly _romantic_ book, if anything, and had been extremely difficult to obtain.

 

Mycroft sat down to dinner for one with the book hovering by his side, and leafed through it as he ate slowly.

 

He couldn’t quite keep quiet the niggling thought that _Jim would love this._

 

And he could come up with no real excuse when he left his flat with the book in tow, heading to The Spider’s Web.

 

It was barely past midnight this time; Mycroft was a bit earlier than usual. A very young couple, slightly tipsy, were wrapped around each other at one of the tables, completely ignoring the frothy drink on the table that was still stirring itself.

 

Excitement at showing the book to Jim outweighed the disappointment they wouldn’t have the space to themselves, and Mycroft sat the book on the bar before he even took a seat.

 

“What is it?” Jim asked, peering over from where he was wiping down the espresso machine.

 

“Our conversation on books somehow set me to rifling through my personal library, and I came across an old favorite,” Mycroft responded. “I thought you might like it.”

 

Jim dropped the towel and hurried over. His fingers ghosted across the cover as he read the title and author, and his eyes went wide.

 

He flipped it open as if to confirm this was really the text he thought it was, and looked positively radiant as he started to devour the words, flipping page after page after he skimmed a finger down the text, mouthing the best phrases and old names as he went—little details Mycroft had just known Jim would enjoy.

 

“How did you get it?” Jim asked, after he finally forced himself to tear his eyes from the pages.

 

Mycroft shrugged, unsure why he was now embarrassed to answer this question.

 

“Coming from an old family line has its perks,” he offered as a non-answer. Truthfully, it did help him access a defunct library that had been seized by the government. But he still had to haggle for this himself.

 

The cacophony of emotions brewing in Jim’s dark eyes were a sight to behold, and Mycroft could do nothing but nod mutely as he asked if he could borrow it. That’s why he had brought the book, after all. He thought Jim might like to borrow it. He couldn’t get the words out.

 

But it turned out just the nod was sufficient, and worth the awkward emotions Mycroft felt roil within his own chest, as he watched Jim cradle the book to his chest and give Mycroft a small smile as if _he_ were the gift.

 

“Thank you,” Jim said. And then they stood there for a long while, before Jim jumped, remembering he was manning the bar, and hastily apologized as he started a pot of tea.

 

Mycroft sipped the light colored cup of tea which he thought might be some oolong, though Jim wouldn’t say this time, and stayed a very long time as he pointed out his favorite bits in the book, and Jim perused it eagerly.

 

It was nearly dawn when Mycroft finally returned to his flat, fully aware just how much he was compromised.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ll finally get to see Sherlock at school in the next chapter. And explore more of how magic is used in this society. Thank you everyone who liked this story!! Really, my heart is just full. I’m just as excited as you are to have everything unfold and I only wish there were more hours in the day so I could do it all at once. The encouragement really means the world to me as I’m working on this right now. Thank you!
> 
> Come talk to me at marcceh.tumblr.com xo


	3. 2. So you’re like, a psychic detective?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to university, and manages to convince everyone he is a psychic. It doesn’t make anyone like him any better.

 

Sherlock Holmes was a proud contrarian.

 

From an early age, he was defying expectations and conventions. Unlike his brother and sister, it seemed like his very particles refused to absorb magic in a way befit a Holmes—which ironically, eventually resulted in him losing the ability to do so at all. As far as medical cases went, his was a fascinating study—or would have been, if Sherlock’s secret were not kept under lock and key.

 

And where Mycroft and Eurus were studious and ambitious, by comparison Sherlock lived with his head in the clouds, playing fantasy and chasing butterflies as his brother tried to teach him logic and sums and deductions.

 

Then, as Sherlock-the-child was socialized, it became clear to both him and his peers that they were not alike. His unintentional defiance then quickly gave way to very deliberate defiance—which he relished in—smashing niceties and norms to pieces wherever he went. If he had to stand out, he would stand out boldly.

 

Which is how Sherlock-the-adult, a Zero, came to apply for a spot in the top university for magic studies in the country, without even an ounce of magic running through his veins.

 

Prior to the age of 5, Sherlock had no real interest in magic. Everyone else had an interest in magic, so he didn’t particularly care for it.

 

But as soon as That Incident had happened, people were all of a sudden calling him a “poor thing” and “how sad it is that he would never wield magic” and “how will he ever amount to anything now?”.

 

A person could be perfectly brilliant even without the aid of magic, young Sherlock thought, and so he set out to prove everyone wrong.

 

His older brother Mycroft was pleased to see him take interest in the subject, and readily imparted all the knowledge he had at his disposal. It was indispensefully useful to Sherlock, who as a Zero with an older brother at 49% now had unfiltered access to the perspectives of both ends of the spectrum.

 

This, largely, allowed Sherlock to pose as a magic user his entire life.

 

A Zero was not the same as an Abomination, an Inhuman, and not nearly as rare. No mental defects came with having no magic, and so it was nothing like having _too_ much magic. About 3 percent of the country’s population had no magic at all, and not having magic seldom impacted day-to-day life nearly everywhere in the world.

 

It was just that being a Zero was a great embarrassment for the _family_ and thus _no one could know._

 

So now, Sherlock was standing in front of a three-person panel, ready to give take the practical part of his exam as part of the admissions process.

 

“Practical” meaning magic.

 

It was a competitive school, and those whose paper applications met the standard were called back in for various rounds of test. Most of them were subjects chosen randomly, but a demonstration of the applicants’ magical abilities was not optional.

 

Sherlock had prepared for this.

 

He had applied under the guise of a 47%—his official ID said as much, thanks to his brother and uncle’s shady government connections—and planned to give the room a fitting demonstration.

 

No, he was not going to try to skate by in the mid-20s range. If he was going to pretend to be able to use magic, he was going to pretend to be one of the best.

 

One of the examiners cleared his throat. He was balding, but for some reason still sought to dye what wisps of hair were left on his head, and wore spectacles that made him look like an owl: Mr. Patrick Keenan.

 

A stuffy woman—Veronica Leicester—with an elegant updo sat to one side of him, and on the other side was a man—Sherman Hoyville—with a mess of wild curls and elbow patches on his tweed jacket. Sherlock couldn’t conjure up the image of more caricature-like university executives if he tried.

 

Sherlock graced the panel with a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, then launched into his preamble.

 

“I am sure by now all of you have looked at my file and gleaned that I am most interested in and partial to the mental side of magic. I won’t waste our time by conjuring up the elements and putting on silly pyrotechnic spectacles”—an intentional jab at the previous applicant—”but will instead present for you a display of Sensing that I am sure you will appreciate,” Sherlock said, imagining this was what circus ring masters felt like.

 

“Now, in order for me to demonstrate these near telepathic abilities, please put up your strongest mental barriers. I have no doubt that you three are among the best of the university’s magic wielders, but do not fear that you will put too much a challenge upon me in reinforcing your walls,” Sherlock continued. They looked surprised—of course they did. This was going to be so much fun.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

“Are we ready?” Sherlock asked, opening them once more after a moment’s pause, during which he was sure they had nodded.

 

Then, he raised his hands, vertically, to his mouth, donning an expression of immense concentration before snapping his eyes over to the absent-minded professor.

 

“You—I sense a profound, almost saintly patience—but deep beneath that—you’re—unhappy?” Sherlock said, gesturing emphatically. “Ah, I see, a research grant, a highly sought-after one that should have been yours. No it nearly was, but then you were cheated out of it, when your colleague sabotaged your meeting with that inopportune call. It has been weighing on you the whole of these past three days, has it not?”

 

There was a thesis of sorts hidden under the pile of applications before him, and though beautiful bound, the top right corners had been decimated, clearly by a fit more angry than nervous.

 

“It was...a labor of love? You'd spent a long, long number of years on… ah, yes of course, of course you did. You did everything to make sure the research was the most authentic, and, of course, groundbreaking—it would have changed the course of the study of...I’m seeing a tribe of some sort, these people who have spent so long on the fringes of society, but who have preserved the ancient techniques of—M...Me...Meh...I’m getting an ‘M’ sound…” Sherlock trailed off, pacing back and forth. He’d only seen half the words on the paper before it got shuffled away. But he was right on target if the professor’s facial expression was to believed, and it was just an open book. “Ah, the Medieval theories on occult and…?”

 

“Midwifery!” the professor exclaimed, unable to reign his excitement in.

 

Oh, being a charlatan was _so easy._

 

Sherlock whirled around to face the woman on the right this time, and she seemed taken aback at the sudden attention.

 

“I’m getting—pot, no, port—a boat, of some sort? You enjoyed yourself, a vacation? Port, port, ah no—the wine! Oh, you had a date! And it was wonderful, it’s so hard to meet a man these days, at this age, who has _taste_ as well as a place in the world—yes, you’re completely right about that,” Sherlock rambled on, eyes flitting around the room as he gestured nonsensically. “Oh except—oh no—I’m getting something...dark, here. There’s something else.”

 

At this, he turned back to face the woman intently.

 

“There’s a secret. Something he’s not telling you. I’m getting the letter… H…” he trailed off, and she gasped, before mumbling to herself in a way that confirmed his deductions. Her perfume was new and did not suit her at all; it was obvious she recently met a new man, and had not dated much for a long while. And she was trying far too hard to impress him, which indicated an imbalance in power between the two—and that always pointed to secrets.

 

Sherlock then turned to the third and last—and likely most important—of the three interviewers, who wore a slightly defensive look, as if unsure of Sherlock’s abilities just yet.

 

“Jack,” Sherlock suddenly pronounced, stretching out the word, enunciating the syllables dramatically. He let his eyes glaze over, staring off into the distance.

 

He’d scarcely said another word before the man’s mouth already dropped open.

 

This one, this one Sherlock had cheated on, just a bit.

 

“Jack,” he said again slowly. “Jack? Black. Track.”

 

He did some research beforehand, you see, and learned the name of his small pet dog—his deceased, small pet dog. It was a small terrier, mostly black, and the victim of a hit and run.

 

The interviewer’s eyes were misty now.

 

“He was such a good boy,” Sherlock said, still in his slow, trance-like voice. Then he shook himself all over before composing himself, and turned to the man to speak in a soft voice.

 

“He’s very happy where he is now, you know,” Sherlock said, hands behind his back, pinching himself on the wrist as hard as he could, to prevent himself from laughing.

 

He got a watery smile as a reward.

 

The interviewers, though they had each been mildly insulted and felt offended, were all in good spirits now, thinking they had found an applicant of rare sensing power. Sherlock had merely deduced it all, but it was never a question that they would be too stupid to see it.

 

After all, the interviewers were all in the mid-to-high 40s, as they were in one way presenting the face of the school. They relied on magic in their careers and day-to-day, and likely rarely exercised the mind in ways someone who could never wield magic might.

 

》》》

 

Roughly one month later, Sherlock received a letter in the post. To absolutely no one’s surprise, it bore news that he had been accepted into Oberon University.

 

》》》

 

Sherlock loaded up his schedule with classes on theory and managed to steer clear of most practical coursework by presenting a very ambitious thesis project that involved copious amounts of research and promised new material. It was all very Award Worthy, and institutions like Oberon, which depended much on private donations and prestige, valued that.

 

The first _real_ challenges came when Sherlock met his peers for the first time.

 

Before the first class even began (History of Magic as Medicine: Myth and Facts), Sherlock stuck his foot in his mouth.

 

He arrived minutes before the class was starting, much like the rest of the lecture’s attendees. Just as Sherlock took a seat, a pretty girl with long brown hair in a high ponytail took the seat one chair to the left and in front of him, giving him a perfect view as a boy his age took the seat adjacent to her’s.

 

“Jane, you’re coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?” he asked.

 

Sherlock suppressed an eyeroll as the girl scratched her hand, fidgeting so clearly anyone could see she was about to lie. And the two were clearly a couple (on and off since high school), and she was clearly cheating.

 

Honestly, the whole situation had been so boring Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to remember it all.

 

If he was recalling correctly, and he wasn’t, the girl must have said something like “oh, but I can’t! I’ve got to go get a manicure or some other horrible excuse because my nails have clearly just been done and actually cost a fortune—on your dime, I’m sure” and then the guy had just _pleaded_ and _cajoled_ and he was really making such a fool of himself that Sherlock had to blurt out—

 

“Oh shut it, will you?”—after all, the professor had arrived and class was starting. Sherlock had wanted to get into a debate with this one, the man had written a book touted as a debunking of many magical study myths and there were so many holes in it it was worse than Swiss cheese.

 

“You’re both terrible liars so I’ll just save you the time and tell you she’s planning to meet another date tonight,” Sherlock said carelessly, and they both turned to gape at him—the boy disbelieving and the girl quickly blanching.

 

It was bad enough that he’d sown seeds of suspicion, but then a third person walked up to the row and took the seat next to the girl, Jane, was it? He gave her a sunny smile and greeting.

 

“Ah, there he is. The mystery date,” Sherlock said, pleased that things were resolving themselves so easily.

 

Of course, then all hell broke loose. It seemed Guy 1 was not as gullible as he first let himself on to be, because he must have had suspicions this was true or he would not have turned on Guy 2 so quickly.

 

Quickly as in, he practically flew across the desk between them to punch Guy 2 in the face.

 

Therefore setting off a brawl in the middle of the lecture hall.

 

At 8 in the morning.

 

Class hadn’t even started yet, and the professor was calling security. The girl was screaming for them to stop, but that only drew more attention (of the cheers and jeers variety from the sideline) which only egged them on.

 

Not one and a half minutes later, security was still at the front door but the fighting had calmed enough that the two young men—presumably friends at some point—stopped to consider what had set them off.

 

And turned on Sherlock.

 

“How would you know, anyway?” one of them shouted angrily. It was a good question.

 

It was a very good question, in fact, but Sherlock had no time to give his fake answer before someone (incensed by the fight that’d broken out but too far away to have gotten in on the action in time, probably) threw a book at Sherlock.

 

It was lobbed from afar and pushed by magic, flying fast and hard. Any other magic wielder would have pushed it out of the way before it hit, could have combated the target-seeking kinetic placed on its trajectory. But Sherlock could not.

 

And instead got smacked right between the eyes with the heavy tome.

 

By now, security had made its way up the steps and to where the fight had broken up and already ceased, and Sherlock was lying on the ground surrounded by complete silence.

 

Not exactly the way he wanted to make a first impression, much less the way he wanted to stand out.

 

》》》

 

Later, in the dining hall, Sherlock took one look across the crowd of students and knew he’d been ostracized for the next four years. Word had spread already, much like the dark bruise he was sporting between the eyes.

 

It was enough to make him lose his appetite, prompting him to make an abrupt about-face so he could eat by himself, or eat not at all, in his dorm room.

 

The walk back was, to Sherlock’s internal dismay, possibly just as bad as if he had stayed in the cafeteria. Whispers and backward glances of the meanly mirthful sort followed him through the hallway and up the stairs until he reached his room.

 

Sherlock was bunking with another first year by the name of Eddie Daston, a forgetful boy who no matter how many times Sherlock asked him to keep his items separate, would find a way to forget to do so. In less than a day, Eddie had managed to contaminate three experiments.

 

He was still in bed at the time Sherlock had left for his first class, and should not have been in the room by lunch time. But the students two doors down and across the hall were in. Oh, in fact, they were hanging around with friends and half in the hallway, in mid-conversation as Sherlock approached.

 

As he reached for the doorknob of his room, he heard a snigger.

 

Ah. Two of the group of four there had been in his morning class, and one of them was clearly the alpha of the group.

 

“I heard he got in because he tested so high in sensing, he said he was a 47%. But I guess he's defective because he clearly hasn't got any kinetic ability,” he was saying. He was the type eager to show off, then.

 

But for all Sherlock could deduce someone’s backstory and intentions, he still had absolutely no affinity for magic. He didn't realize just how much he was in for until he tried the knob and lock and realized he could not make it budge.

 

Laughter erupted behind him and a chill ran down his spine. So it was going to be like this.

 

Sherlock whirled around to face his classmate; looming a head above most people did have its advantages.

 

“So, what will it be? I march down to student services and tell them to try behind the headboard for the illegal substances you spent half your textbook money on? Should I persuade your friends you have a horrible intestinal disease that causes you to become permanently gassy at the most ill-timed moments? Or would you prefer I make you feel like you think you're deathly ill every time a big exam comes up? Every time you even think of asking someone you fancy out for coffee?”

 

Sherlock knew he shouldn't push, should at least attempt to lay low because he couldn't afford to be found out, but Sherlock wasn't the type for laying low while others stomped all over him, and his brother's warnings against causing a scene were still ringing in his ears, a little voice in his head, somewhere in the attic, screeching at him to _rebel_ . Sherlock could scarcely do any of the things he listed, save the first one, at least not with magic, but _they_ didn't _know_ that.

 

The bully’s face turned ruddy and his friends fell silent, determinedly not meeting Sherlock's eyes. He opened his mouth, unsure if he wanted to launch into a second string of threats or demand repercussions—but he didn't need to.

 

The door behind him swung wide open, and his classmate glared at him, then looked at his friends as if all four could communicate with just their eyes, then they stepped into their own room, slamming the door shut on Sherlock. That left him standing alone in the empty hallway, now deafeningly silent compared to the whispers that had followed him all day.

 

Slowly, still heaving from his anger and embarrassment, he stepped into his own room and surveyed the mess. Eddie had turned getting ready in the mornings into an art, leaving behind clutter and rubble that rivaled the work of a hurricane. Now they'd have to deal with the broken lock on the door as well. 

 

Sherlock was tired. Sherlock did not want to be here any longer. He'd been at school scarcely 12 hours and already wanted to wipe his memory of the whole thing. He clung to the small apart of him that wanted to prove his brother wrong. Thank goodness for small mercies like the universal sentiment of sibling rivalry.

 

Grabbing his bag of espresso beans, a cap and scarf, his lockpicks, some sparklers, and a handful of notes he'd taken during a manic 3am stupor the night before, he balled up Eddie’s socks and shoved them in the trash out of spite before heading out again.

 

Here, too, even as a genius amongst geniuses, he was an outsider.

 

In hindsight, should've been obvious.  No reason someone as against the grain as he was would have an _easier_ time here, especially not since he went out of his way to pretend to have way more magic than he had. Infinite amounts, if we were being technical.

 

He was altogether a different sort of genius, and it was the kind of genius that went against everything these people had built themselves upon.

 

At least he could find solace in the library, where his peers would be words and their authors, half of whom were dead.

 

》》》

 

Not ten minutes later Sherlock was tucked into a cozy nook of the library, never happier. The sky-high rows of bookshelves provided a fortress-like cover between him and everyone else in the university, the lighting was mysterious while still allowing for perfect visibility for reading, and he was methodically chomping away at his espresso beans while speed-reading his way through a book on the effects of different amounts of magic on the central nervous system and brain while alternatively thumbing his way through a chemistry text.

 

The past few decades had been kind to recreational drug experimentation, but sadly the vast majority of drugs were effective only because they played on the magic in one’s bloodstream, meaning they had absolutely no effect on Sherlock. He’d tried, and all he got was sick for his trouble.

 

There was a brief stint in high school where he experimented in brewing up his own concoctions, drugs that had nothing to do with magic and all to do with the brain, but his brother had promptly put a stop to that by having his lab excavated. He’d been ready to build another one—mind-altering substances were ridiculously easy to fabricate, after all—but had somehow been distracted by a very interesting scandal whereby he uncovered an insurance scheme that had been taking advantage of lower ranked populations. And by the time that wrapped up, summer was over, and he was on to applying to universities.

 

The human brain was in and of itself a marvel—even without the addition of magic. Yet, the relationship between magic and the mind in scientific studies was still in its infancy, Sherlock thought as he finished one book and headed for the shelves. There was so much we still didn’t know, so much we still couldn’t _do._

 

In fact, Sherlock had a theory that, in some ways, the access to magic had actually hampered studies and advances in the realm of the human mind. That people had gotten complacent because of it. It was not a popular theory.

 

As he placed his book back on the shelf and made to grab another, he heard a hissing from around the other side.

 

“Alice, you’ve got to get to a hospital!” a short boy with dirty blond hair was whisper-yelling. Oh, Sherlock hated that tone. It reminded him of his brother having a nervous fit about things he would get in trouble with Mummy for (things that were without a doubt Sherlock’s fault).

 

Two students, his age, were arguing between the stacks, hunched over and secretive. The girl seemed to be nursing a horrible injury to her right arm, covered by her coat sleeve.

 

“And say _what_ , exactly?” she whispered back, more of a choked off shriek than anything. The pain was bad, then. Really, really bad.

 

“Let me see,” Sherlock demanded, stomping closer and sending them into a fit of panic, but not so much that they moved to run away. This event was _such_ an anomaly, and he wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers. “I won’t go to the authorities if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

The Dirty Blond and Ginger Curls turned to each other and seemed to have a whole wordless conversation before Sherlock, crazy facial expressions playing out across their faces. Look what you got us into!, Ginger Curls seemed to emote. Me? _Me?? ,_ and Dirty Blond was positively livid.

 

“She’s got to get it treated,” the boy insisted to Sherlock, as if power in numbers could persuade his friend to do the detestable.

 

“That’s why I came to you!” she hissed.

 

“I’m a pre-med student, not a doctor!” he shot back.

 

“You know anatomy better than anyone in class! You’ve set bones! You were an _eagle scout_!” They were barely doing the whispering half of their whisper-yelling now.

 

“I’d lower your voice if I were you,” Sherlock advised, eager to get a glimpse at the wound she was trying to keep concealed. There were thin green lines forming a marble-like pattern from what he could see of her fingers, and wasn’t that just fascinating.

 

He suspected a drug cocktail of some sort gone wrong, leaving her with side-effects she couldn’t explain away.

 

He was so wrong.

 

“Alright, fine, show him. He’ll tell you you’ve got to get to a hospital as well,” Dirty Blond said.

 

“I’m Sherlock,” Sherlock interjected.

“What?”

 

“I’m Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, that’s my name,” he elaborated. “Now, may I please see the arm already?”

 

Ginger Curls gave him a mildly disgusted and very baffled look, but acquiesced after another glance at her friend, and reluctantly slipped her arm out of her coat, then rolled up her jumper sleeve.

 

The green marbling only got more defined as it trailed up her arm, forming distinct vines that seemed to be growing from under her skin by the point it reached her elbow.

 

Oh. Oh, this was bad.

 

And it was marvellous.

 

“Fae-touched,” Sherlock whispered, absolutely entranced. Not physical pain then, just shock and disgust. This was the most interesting mystery he had ever encountered in his life.

 

“She’s got to see someone about it,” Dirty Blond insisted.

 

“You absolutely do not want to do that,” Sherlock replied, looking straight at Ginger Curls.

 

“What?!” her friend turned to him, betrayed, enraged, and Sherlock completely ignored him.

 

“Where did this happen? When?” Sherlock asked. And _why?_ , he didn't ask. Sure everyone knew that fae and magical creatures persisted, that they were out there _somewhere_ either a byproduct or the predecessors of the magic that had flooded the world, but they kept to themselves and rarely made an appearance to human eyes.

 

Though people could wield magic, live magic, as it was called, there were distinct differences between what humans could do, and what magic folk could do.

 

Humans couldn’t Bargain, for one. They couldn’t bind promises into the skin and soul the way magic folk did. And they couldn’t Glamour, or change their shape at will, playing with that others saw in their eyes and minds. And for that reason, people determined that humans weren’t nearly as dangerous as magic folk were.

 

Sherlock reached out and nudged at one of the vines with a rolled up piece of paper from his pocket, fascinated to see that it didn’t give a single millimeter.

 

“Well the good news is it isn’t spreading,” he murmured. “The bad news is I guess you’ve lost your arm.”

 

The limb was stone-still, and the vines looked made of porcelain. She must have known. But still she looked at him with tears in her eyes and horror.

 

“I suppose you could live with it as is as well, try to pass it off as a trendy prosthetic. It won’t be much different from amputating it and getting a real prosthetic, unless you get one of those dextrous ones,” Sherlock continued. “But if you went to the authorities now, all they would do would be interrogate you about how you came across magic folk in the first place. There would be deposition after deposition, and you would have a record.”

 

Ginger Curls turned from Sherlock to her friend and back again several times, mouth opening and closing as if she couldn’t quite find the words. From the sad, sad expression on his friend’s face, he knew Sherlock was right too, and he hadn’t wanted to come to terms that she was Fae-touched.

 

They both knew he was right. Coming in contact with magical folk was not common, but it was nearly always the start of something _really bad._ That fae made themselves visible and present before humans was an event that almost always only preceded a horrible joke or prank on their part—resulting in humans dead or mad. She’d likely be quarantined.

 

“I was—I was out in the park just after sunset,” she whispered, really whispered this time. “It wasn’t anything unusual, I was just walking my sister’s dog yesterday because she lives in the city and I was visiting and then—Poppy was both of ours before she moved, you know? I hadn’t seen her in so long.”

 

“And then she started barking and barking and I thought it was so strange because _no one was there_ and she was tugging at the lead so hard I couldn’t not give chase. And then out of _nowhere_ this voice tells me to, it said, it told me to leave—”

 

“What did it say exactly?” Sherlock pressed. Which park? What day? He could wait to ask line by line once she finished.

 

“He—It said, ‘This place is not for you,’ and the _voice_ it was so cold it was like it just cut _through_ me, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from and Poppy _wouldn’t stop pulling_.”

 

She had one arm curled around herself now, and the other hanging limply, like it was no longer her’s, and she no longer knew what to do with it.

 

“And then he appeared out of nowhere, and put its hand on my arm. It was tall, inhumanly so, and I couldn’t see—I didn’t see its face, or anything really. It was like a shadow of a tree suddenly came to life,” she finished in a small voice. “And it laid a hand on my arm—and the next thing I remember is sitting on a bench, Poppy still by my side, and I think an hour had passed. I had six messages from my sister, and two missed calls.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to question her some more, but Dirty Blond interrupted by pulling the girl into a hug as she fell apart with tears.

 

“We’ll find a way to fix it,” he told her.

 

“I should think not,” Sherlock scoffed with a small laugh unthinkingly. The shorter student turned to glare at him, but it wasn’t his fault. It was true. “There’s seldom been a case of encountering one of the magic folk _twice_ , much less the same one, and I doubt a being as flighty as the one who turned your arm to ceramic on a whim would feel badly about it and want to change it back. Not without taking something else as trade.”

 

“Oh God,” she said, closing her eyes. Her worst fears were being verbalized.

 

“Have you no _heart?_ ” the boy hissed at him. “Can’t you see this is the last thing she needs to hear right now?”

 

“It is _not_ ,” Sherlock insisted. “You need to tell me where exactly you saw this, because— because at the very least there must be some reason! Fae taking up in a public park? When all we know says that they prefer to stay out of human-dense areas? There’s something going on here.”

 

“Wimbledon Common,” she whispered. “I can show you on a map.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up.

 

“We’d best continue the conversation in a less public venue,” he added. “Lest we want the librarians to call university security on us.”

 

》》》

 

The three of them sat in John’s room—that was his name, the Dirty Blond student, his name was John Watson—on the floor surrounded by stacks of books and papers, poring over old cases of fae encounters. John and Alice Charpentier—that was her name, Ginger Curls—were primarily concerned with the related medical files, and Sherlock was most interested in _how they thought_. If it were a human, he could easily deduce that various gangs were on the brink of a turf war, but fae were not so straightforward as that. There was no discernable pattern he could find. At least not yet. As interesting as it all was, there was the very real possibility the case would go nowhere.

 

Hours into their fruitless research, John and Alice changed tack, and Sherlock eventually latched on to the discussion as well, coming up with ways to help Alice conceal the nature of her loss of limb, and carry on without the wrong kind of scrutiny. That in itself was an interesting practical exercise, and one Sherlock was well suited for devising a strategy for seeing as he was in a similar, if opposite, position.

 

Plus, John then delightfully revealed that he had a friend at the morgue who might be able to assist in discretely disposing of the limb (while Sherlock was very much for having a contact at the morgue on their side, he insisted he be able to keep the limb for research purposes. Alice did not deign to answer).

 

Sherlock noticed it was very dark by the time Alice got up to leave, and that for some strange reason, she said she was very thankful. But still teary. Which was a little gross.

 

So they said their goodbyes, and closed the door.

 

Then stood there for a good long moment, before John turned to Sherlock expectantly. Then Sherlock realized he wanted him to leave. Of course.

 

“Well,” he said, wrapping his scarf haphazardly back on. “I must be heading back to the library now.”

 

“The—sorry, did you say _library?_ ” John asked.

 

“Yes, John, the one where we met.” Sherlock tugged on his coat, then reached for the door again, only to be stopped by John stepping straight in front of him. “You were there just hours ago yourself.”

 

“It is 1:30,” John said.

 

“Is it, now? Thank you for the time,” Sherlock replied.

 

“In the _morning_ ,” John said.

 

“Yes, I’m aware,” Sherlock replied easily.

 

It was a long standoff.

 

“Could you please get out of the way?” Sherlock asked.

 

“You’re not a real student here, are you?” John asked, more triumphant than accusatory.

 

“What?” Had he been figured out already? Sherlock racked his brain for anything he shouldn’t have said over the past few hours and came up empty. Was this John fellow more clever than he initially let on?

 

“Hiding on campus, are you? That’s why you were eating at the library. You don’t exactly have a room on campus do you?”

 

Oh. Not that clever then. Oh he was so, so off.

 

“I am, in fact, a student here,” Sherlock replied snippily, popping up the collar of his coat. “I just happen to have an incredibly inconsiderate roommate.”

 

“Wha—? Oh.”

 

“Oh? Oh. No, not that.”

 

“Then…”

 

“He just happens to leave his socks in my experiments and also I may or may not have alienated the entire hallway of students and they tried to lock me out of my own room earlier. I surmise it could happen again, and my return would be very uncomfortable.”

 

Another long silence.

 

“You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?” John finally asked. Sherlock sniffed.

 

“Well. You can stay here tonight if you want?” John continued.

 

“Excuse me?” Now he was taken aback.

 

John gestured to the room at large. There were indeed two standard issue twin beds, one of them which didn't even have sheets.

 

“I did have a roommate, but they had to drop out late, just yesterday, I think. Family issue of some sort,” John explained, rubbing the back of his head. “So there’s, you know, room.”

 

Sherlock just stared. At the bed, then at John.

 

“So you don’t have to get locked in your room or bunk in the library or whatever,” he further explained, as if stating more of the obvious would somehow help his case.

 

“I mean, if you’re not a complete horror to room with, we could go to student services and request the change formally. I’ve already got the second set of keys, but they’ll probably want to put your name on the forms and everything. So you don’t get billed for damages your roommate causes either,” John added.

 

“I’ve got lockpicks,” Sherlock answered.

 

“What?”

 

“The keys aren’t a big issue,” he elaborated.

 

“That’s...really weird, actually, but from what I already know of you I suppose that par for the course, isn’t it. Oh hell, what am I getting myself into?” John rambled. “So yeah, I’m saying you don’t got to sleep in the library, alright?”

 

Sherlock stared some more, at the bed, then at the vacated space on the floor where he had been sitting, beside the pile of documents and books. He stared at the awful standard-issue curtains on the window, and the three mismatched mugs they had been drinking tea out of.

 

“Alright,” he finally said.

 

》》》

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he scanned the front page of the newspaper.

 

“Oh, brilliant!” he said, a bit giddy, under his breath. John craned his neck to read the headlines as well.

 

After about a week of sharing a dorm without much trouble (though John was still both constantly baffled by Sherlock’s lack of social manners and astonished by his cleverness), they finally remembered to make a formal request to change rooms, which occurred neatly without incident. It seemed Eddie had even forgotten about Sherlock over the past week.

 

Sherlock was content. John was...John was peculiar. No matter what Sherlock did, he seemed only ever amused or entertained, or sometimes (increasingly often) exasperated. But he was never angry, not in a mean way, at least.

 

And he never even commented on the way Sherlock would prefer (would _have to_ ) do simple chores by hand without the aid of magic. Perhaps it helped that he was eccentric by nature, and maybe John considered it just another quirk.

 

He didn't treat Sherlock as a freak, even though he knew he was, because John must have just been awfully, awfully tolerant.

 

As such, they settled into somewhat of a complementary routine around each other in just a few days.

 

It was...companionable.

 

“Um. Yes I suppose the transportation budget finally passing is, objectively, a good thing. Are you a train aficionado of some sort?” John commented, a little confused.

 

“Not that, _that_!” Sherlock replied, jamming a finger into the left corner of the paper. A headline about some petty theft, a standard mugging gone wrong, resulting in the victim’s head being cracked open on the sidewalk after slipping and losing his balance.

 

There were handprints and everything, indicating a tussle upon which the mugger had slipped too, but had the advantage of cushioning in the form of another human body before he hit the ground. Perhaps the most interesting thing about the crime was the fact that the perpetrator was a high-ranked individual, according to forensics. That was sure to set off a flurry of opinions and public debate.

 

“Um,” John replied intelligently.

 

“A murder, John! And a complicated one at that, we must get to the crime scene immediately,” Sherlock said, tossing the paper aside and throwing on his coat. “Come on! Crime waits for no one.”

 

“Sherlock, I’m pretty sure that was not a murder. It pretty plainly states the victim was mugged, slipped, and the thief got away with the wallet in his pocket,” John said, tugging on his own coat nonetheless.

 

“Nope!” Sherlock said, not bothering to elaborate. He flung the door open and tapped his foot impatiently. “Hurry up, John. You’ll see when we get there.”

 

He spun out dramatically into the hallway.

 

“The game’s afoot, Watson!” Sherlock called out from outside, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

 

“Right,” John said gamely, locking the door behind him.

 

Sherlock was practically skipping, John trailing behind him mumbling something or the other about criminally long legs and an utter lack of consideration for people without such.

 

》》》

 

It was about twenty minutes before the two of them skidded to a stop, a few feet from where the poor—now deceased—man had fell. The area wasn’t even taped off, it was such a high-traffic area, and such a small crime.

 

“According to the police report,” Sherlock said as he crouched down on the ground to inspect for any neglected clues, “the man was a 45%.”

 

John gave a low whistle.

 

“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed, hopping to his feet.

 

“Fallen pretty far, didn’t he?” John commented.

 

“Oh no, John, you’re not looking at this logically,” Sherlock tsked, and went back to pacing around the defunct crime scene.

 

“This man could not have been a 45%” he declared.

 

“Oh, and you know that, do you? Even though top of the line forensics scanners have done a procedural sweep like the paper said,” John replied lightheartedly. “I forget you’re a 47% sometimes, with all your quirks, but I guess when you’re that good at sensing it’s easy to say things like this, eh?”

 

“Think, John!” Sherlock said, exasperated. “How did the man die?”

 

“Er, a stab wound?”

 

“Yes!” Sherlock pointed at him. “Now you’re getting it.”

 

“So...he, I don’t know, lost his job and acquired a drinking habit or something. Had things handed to him on a silver platter all his life, so there’s this, you know, pent up rage building once he’s lost it all. And then, um, he’s got nothing now and is probably drunk, demands this man hand over his wallet, shanks him in the heat of the moment, runs off once he realizes what he’s done,” John hazarded, picking up his pace once he got into the swing of things. Sherlock did it all the time, and it seemed like some if it had rubbed off on it. Now that he was experiencing it himself, he did have to admit there was a sort of rush to it.

 

Sherlock just gaped at him.

 

“Wrong. You’re so wrong, I don’t even know where to start,” Sherlock finally managed. “And ‘shanks him’?? Nevermind. I’m going to ignore all of that.”

 

“Hey!” John protested, oddly offended his theory had been shot down so quickly.

 

“There was no way this man could have been a 45%, you see, because a man who has wielded so much magic for the majority of his life would never resort to a knife as his first defense, or offense,” Sherlock explained, gesturing to the empty crime scene for added effect. “It is, however, understandable that you as a 21% would not have come to that conclusion naturally.”

 

John pursed his lips, but didn’t take offense to that. Not the ranking bit, at least, but he was a little put out that none of his theory held at all.

 

“No, this was the work of someone who naturally wields very little magic,” Sherlock murmured. “He had the knife at the ready and meant to kill the victim from the start. A 47% would have even in an inebriated state killed the man with the aid of magic. The mugging was only a cover up. But what could he want?”

 

“Are you going into a trance?” John asked curiously. He hadn’t yet seen Sherlock fully in action sensing the history of a place, person, or object, though he did it in bits and pieces all the time, but he had heard all about his university interview.

 

“What? No,” Sherlock threw him a confused look before turning back to the site of the fallen man. “What else did he take? The papers didn’t report it. The victim was no one of importance, and a completely average rank. He was 25%. Suspiciously average, in fact.”

 

“We must examine the body,” Sherlock said to John urgently.

 

John just stared, taken aback.

 

“Right, and how are you going to do that?” he asked slowly.

 

“Your friend at the morgue—call in a favor. You must,” Sherlock insisted.

 

John’s mouth dropped open. “And how would you know he was there? How do you know where _works_?”

 

“The papers,” Sherlock said hurriedly, already heading down the street in the direction of the morgue.

 

“And how would you know who my friend was!” John shouted after him, jogging a bit to catch up.

 

“Oh, do you really even need to ask?” Sherlock shouted back, already at the intersection.

 

》》》

 

John pressed the button for the second lower level in the elevator, giving Sherlock a suspicious glance.

 

“You know, it’s rude to read others without their permission,” he said a bit casually.

 

“Oh I hardly need to do so,” Sherlock replied just as easily. “I mean people are leaky things, it comes out at me all the time. It’d be a huge effort, a big strain, to not see anything at all.”

 

“Hm,” John replied.

 

The elevator doors opened, and John narrowed his eyes as Sherlock practically peeled down the hallway, making all the correct turns until he came to the right door. He hadn’t even been here before.

 

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, let himself into the room where the body was being examined, not bothering to announce or introduce himself to the female lab assistant overseeing the work.

 

“Aha! Just in time,” Sherlock said happily. “Here, John, come look.”

 

John entered the room after him and shot an apologetic look at the startled young woman.

 

“Molly, good to see you, sorry for the short notice, sorry for Sherlock, and sorry for the imposition—he has this whole mystery in his head and—I promise we won’t be long,” John said, coming around to give her a quick half-hug.

 

Molly nodded along, giving Sherlock a curious glance.

 

“That’s okay,” she said, shaking her head. “It actually strikes me as curious as well, seeing as he has these odd puncture—”

 

“There are puncture wounds on his side!” Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly, having whipped off the sheet covering the corpse. “See, right there!”

 

“Yes, even though the report says he died of a stab wound. That’s a strange place for any medical injection, it couldn’t have been that,” she continued, fidgeting nervously with her hair, brushing it back and forward and back.

 

“No, given the force of it, there was no way the man gave it to himself,” Sherlock agreed. “And the two-pronged puncture must have been some implementation of the industrial sort, nothing medical looks like _this._ ”

 

“Did you test it for any trace metals?” Sherlock asked, coming around the table to loom over John and his friend Molly-from-the-Morgue.

 

She stuck out her hand instead, to shake his.

 

“Molly Hooper, I’m a lab assistant here, doing my residency. John and I, we went to prep school together,” she said. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

 

Sherlock frowned at her, but at John insistent (disapproving) expression, he relented and shook her hand. “Sherlock Holmes, he found me in the library.”

 

“In the li—” Molly blinked turned to John for clarification, but Sherlock cut her off.

 

“Those tests, _please_ ,” he groaned.

 

She blinked at him, then moved toward the table by the side which held a pile of folders.

 

Unfortunately, the security guard on the floor chose that moment to pass by the door—no that wasn’t it, he wasn’t alone. If he had just been making the sweeps, Sherlock could have convincing explained it away. Oh no, he had two detectives in tow, who had apparently come back for the lab tests they’d ordered and Molly had been involved in administering.

 

Sherlock spotted then before John or Molly did, and his brain kicked into red alert.

 

They could possibly have gotten away, but that would set back his investigation—plus they would have seen his face and gotten his name, and then he would be forever blacklisted. And if he pushed and caused a scene, he might have gotten charged with tampering with evidence and hindering an investigation. Being processed for arrest meant paperwork meant blood testing meant his cover would be blown and he would have to suffer the full wrath of his brother’s _I told you so_ face.

 

He wasn’t going to let that happen.

 

Sherlock flung himself to the side, crashing spectacularly into John who, to his credit, did a bang-up job of holding up the sudden, added weight with only a little stumbling. Then Sherlock’s hand flew to his temples as he pretending to have a mild fit à la Cassandra, he supposed, channeling the frenetic energy of a Greek oracle. He had a gut feeling, and he was going to go with it.

 

“The blood!” Sherlock gasped, just as the detectives approached, all angry-faced and business-ready. “The bloodwork, it’s all wrong!”

 

“Who are these two? What are you doing here, don’t you know this is the middle of an investigation?” the female detective asked.

 

“It doesn’t match his records!” Sherlock yelled.

 

Molly looked up from the papers, surprise coloring her face.

 

“Oh my goodness, he’s right,” she said, turning to the detectives. “I mean, he’s actually right, the man’s blood tests came back and they’re nothing like the ones on his record…”

 

She trailed off, giving Sherlock a look akin to awe.

 

“I’m not sure how he knew that, he hadn’t even touched the body, but it’s true,” she explained. “His files say he’s a 25%, but these tests say he’s a Zero.”

 

_Bingo._

 

Sherlock opened one eye, committing to memory the expressions on the faces of everyone in the room.

 

Then he let out a loud, exaggerated groan and pushed himself off and up from John, before doing a full body shake as if he was a dog trying to shake off a heavy rainstorm once he stepped foot indoors.

 

Then he took another look around the room, feigning surprise at all the new entrants.

 

“I’m terribly sorry about that, it happens, sometimes, when the pull is particularly strong,” Sherlock said primly, smoothing down the lapels of his coat. “I’d been feeling the compulsion to tell this man’s story from beyond the grave ever since the early hours of the morning, and it drew me all the way down to here. I scarcely knew where I was going, but my dear companion here has helped me from running into doors and traffic.”

 

“This man was murdered, not as a the unfortunate consequence of a mugging gone wrong, but for purposes far more sinister by the looks of things,” Sherlock continued for his captive audience. “A perfectly average man was chosen as the target of some nefarious experiment and drained of all his magic. This brings one other, very similar, famously so, case to mind.”

 

And here, he paused for dramatic effect.

 

“Jack the Ripper,” he said in a dark tone.

 

“Gentlemen, ladies, I think we have a much bigger crime than initially thought on hand,” Sherlock finished. “A criminal of great cunning, of great means, and absolutely no restraint or respect for morals or humanity. And given the nature of the crime, it is almost certain he will strike again.”

 

》》》

 

The walk home was—surreal—if John was being honest.

 

After Sherlock’s dramatic speech, chaos broke loose with commentary and accusations coming from all sides until John finally got on a chair and hollered at the top of his lungs, which of course sent the _other_ security guard on the floor running, and then the chaos resumed all over again.

 

Eventually it was cleared up that yes Sherlock really was just an incredibly sensitive 47%, and after all, he seemed mostly right about the whole thing, as he usually was. It helped that he really didn’t touch the body at all, and that Molly had the tests to back his theories up.

 

The detectives sent them off with a strict warning not to interfere again, and Sherlock tried to convince them to ring him up for his services should they encounter more interesting cases, and John was perhaps the only one that noticed how he deflected every time they asked him to promise to not continue to investigate this one.

 

“So...you’re like...a psychic detective?” John asked slowly, unlocking the door to their shared dorm room. Sherlock had been quite calm the walk back, and was very likely plotting all the ways to get to the bottom of this murder. The jury was out whether he was crazy enough to be planning to catch the serial killer himself.

 

At John’s question, utter mortification warred with the need for hysterical laughter and a small voice in the back of Sherlock’s mind was shouting denial quite vehemently, but Sherlock managed to school his facial features into a cool and collected expression.

 

It made sense, as a cover.

 

Except it was utterly, _incredibly_ _stupid,_ and he wanted to say as much.

 

“Yes. Yes, I am,” he said instead, and the small, shouting voice turned into a wail.

 

A sunny smile broke across John Watson’s face, and Sherlock realized he had probably just made this person’s day, if not life. He was just that good.

 

“That’s amazing!” he exclaimed.

 

A smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips.

 

“A _consulting_ psychic detective,” he amended.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was not my intention until about halfway through the chapter to do this, but then it happened..
> 
> oh man, chapter 3 is the most nebulous one in my mind and I'm still wrapping my head around it so I'm not sure when it'll be up. Then ch 4 is *all about Jim* so it's already my favorite, so I have that to look forward to to get me through the next installment..


	4. 3. A list of things the Holmes brothers should not have said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft realizes he’s interested in a Very Dangerous Man. Everyone lies. John realizes Jim looks oddly familiar.

 

The notorious serial killer Jack the Ripper was never properly identified.

 

As the popular theory goes, the man was a Zero who tortured his victims into giving up their magic.

 

It was said that he somehow got his hands on an illegally crafted transfusion device (most stories say he was a scientist’s assistant, and that was how he came across the blueprints for it). And since everyone knows that transfusions only worked when both parties freely gave their magic, there was little worry of misuse when the device first came to completion.

 

Of course, Jack the Ripper realized that people would rather easily consent to “freely give” away their magic if something greater was at stake. Their life, that of a loved one, a child, the promise of days of physical and psychological torture.

 

In total he was estimated to have killed at least 40 people, of various ages and backgrounds and ranks. He never drained a man dry, save once, where a 3% was murdered and the body was eventually found in the river. There is no documented proof of this case. More often than not, he only took 1% here, maybe 2% there, but in the most gruesome ways. 

 

Countless evidence points toward the theory, but without a real body and name, the figure had so been mythologized that it is now hard to tell the facts from fiction and vice versa.

 

》》》

 

Mycroft offered his wrist up for the man to scan, and couldn’t quite suppress his wince as the bouncer took a blood sample.

 

Or, well, took a blood sample from his agent.

 

Mycroft leaned back in his seat and shifted a bit, reminding himself he wasn’t really there, reminding himself to act present all the same. The nodes stuck to his temples itched, and he knew it was only a phantom sensation, to ignore it.

 

Humans couldn’t Glamour, and this was the next best thing. Experimental tech, available only to those with enough clearance at the Agency. With this, Mycroft effectively had a body double to do his bidding. They weren’t doubles physically, but with some minimally-invasive surgery the agents could have the nodes on their end implanted. Once they were linked up, Mycroft felt, saw, heard, and smelled all the sensations the agent did as if he were there. The agent, on the other hand, would scarcely differentiate Mycroft’s mental orders from his own. 

 

It was an operation that required a lot of finesse, but carried the advantage of telepathic communication. 

 

And this was particularly useful when someone needed to get somewhere their rank wouldn’t allow them to go. In Mycroft’s case, the agent was a high-20s, could pass for a nobody, and currently under the guise of one Landon Doherty, better known by his alias Leb, a hacker who’d done the club owner a favor and now had easy access to a variety of drugs if he so wished. It was one of many the Agency had spent months building up in order to infiltrate the underbelly of London, places that were secretive and required blood on entry.

 

Mycroft let the pounding music wash over him and felt bodies push and press up against him as Leb made his way across the floor of the club. He let the agent take the lead, felt someone clap him on the shoulder, and the bright neon flashes of light dim into something more manageable as they were led down into a more private room.

 

Ever since the strange flare of grenaline imports, Mycroft had sent people out to each of the various hubs of underground activity. It wasn’t the mob, it wasn’t connected to either the Irish or Russian arms dealers, and judging by the conversation his agent was now having, it wasn’t to do with drugs either.

 

There were indeed new drugs on the market, but nothing that included grenaline. And now that he could see how the drugs were being created, Mycroft knew grenaline had no part in the production at all. 

 

Weirder yet was that in the past three days, there were three disappearances. Missing persons, but not all of them gone long enough to be publicly declared as such. Mycroft had the creeping suspicion that this was somehow related. But he didn’t yet know how.

 

He let the agent know there was no need to bring back a sample; a quick glance at the setup of the perfunctory lab had given Mycroft everything he needed to replicate the formula, including alterations to improve the chemical cocktail. He disconnected the nodes and then jotted down some notes that might be helpful for the narcotics unit of the crime agency.

 

It was three in the morning, now, and it scared Mycroft that there was no question of where he was going to go.

 

》》》

 

He was a bit wired, and disoriented still from being linked up and dragged through a club, but rather than lie in bed until it passed, he found himself wishing for a warm cup of something to replace his dreams.

 

Mycroft found Jim huddled over the book he last lent him, reading behind the bar. He didn’t look up until Mycroft was nearly right in front of him.

 

“Late night?” Jim asked.

 

“Quite,” Mycroft replied with a sigh, sinking down into one of the stools.

 

“You look remarkably alert, though,” Jim hummed, bookmarking the tome to go shuffle through the tins of tea leaves.

 

“Colleagues,” Mycroft replied offhandedly. “Someone in the department getting married. Another one just hit retirement. We went out, we made utter fools of ourselves.”

 

Jim gave him a curious look.

 

“I guess that explains why you look flushed,” he finally said, dumping leaves into a teapot. “You don’t otherwise seem like you’ve been drinking though.”

 

Oh, Jim. Surely he knew he gave away how clever he was under that barista disguise with every word? But Mycroft for the life of him couldn’t fathom why and to what end. He was afraid if he asked what he was hiding, or why he let Mycroft see behind the mask, it would end. And he rather liked trading secrets with Jim.

 

“Are you enjoying the book?” he asked instead. 

 

That made Jim smile, a real smile.

 

“Already finished it. I’ve bookmarked my favorite parts to go back over though, and also I wanted to show you,” Jim hurried back over, opening the book up to a spot he wanted to share. “Do you need it back immediately?”

 

“Oh, no. Goodness knows I’ve rarely the time to read my favorites. Please, hold on to it for me, you’d be doing it a favor,” Mycroft said. “In fact, that reminds me, I may have others you’ll like.”

 

Jim looked up in surprise, fake this time.

 

“You’ll spoil me,” he teased.

Mycroft scoffed.

 

“I can’t charge you for tea,” he said more seriously. “Not after this.”

 

Mycroft blinked. It was a strange offer, but not one with any consequences.

 

“Fine,” he finally said, and Jim poured him a steaming cup of light colored liquid.

 

He took a sip. “What is it this time?”

 

“A detox tea,” Jim smirked. “For those drugs you must have taken if you went out and haven’t been drinking.”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but took another drink nonetheless. It was herbal, and it was soothing anyway.

 

“‘A man of half magic is closer to fae than man. Yet one with no magic at all can still be touched by the sight,’” Jim read aloud from the book, glancing at Mycroft. “Do you believe that?”

 

“Which part?” Mycroft asked, deliberately obtuse. At Jim’s tiny pout, he continued and offered his own theory. “There hasn’t ever really been a clear documented case of sight, has there?”

 

“In fact, every text that mentions it was written from before the rift appeared,” Mycroft said.

 

“Besides the  _ Diaries of Lady Isabella Persse _ ,” Jim said.

 

“Yes, but that was fiction,” Mycroft replied.

 

“Do you really think so?”

 

He set down his cup. “I think if someone really could see magic folk, in this world where they are universally considered nightmarish terrors that thankfully keep to themselves, it is entirely possible one wouldn’t even write about the experiences, not even for themselves.”

 

“I think a work of plotted fiction concealing real scenes someone with the sight is a less plausible theory; better evidence would be the ramblings of a madman, perhaps a writer near the end of his life, with allusions to magic folk becoming more prominent, and the writing itself less coherent,” Mycroft said. “And if it really is a curse, I suppose a Zero has just as much of a chance as an Inhuman of having the sight placed upon them.”

 

Jim seemed to consider this for a moment before accepting it, whether he agreed or not. Then he shuffled through the book to find another section he wanted Mycroft’s opinion on.

 

》》》

 

Two whole days had passed, and the detectives down at Scotland Yard made no effort to contact Sherlock.

 

It would not have been so vexing if he had other leads, but now he was pacing tracks into the dorm’s already worn carpet, and John was getting a little antsy by association as well.

 

Then came a text from Molly Hooper, via group message to both Sherlock and John.

 

_ You were right, metal trace is unusual _

 

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his seat at the message.

 

The part of his brain that wasn’t tossing New Year’s crackers everywhere and ringing bells in celebration was considering the fact that, if he were the superstitious type, he’d consider John Watson something of a lucky charm. Two of the most interesting cases he had ever seen, ever, just fell into his lap within a day of meeting him. So interesting that they hadn’t gotten to the bottom of either one of them yet. 

 

_ To the odd puncture I mean _

 

_ I mean, to the corpse, the man who died in the supposed mugging that really wasn’t a mugging _

 

_ This is Molly btw _

 

_ There’s _

 

_ Weird residue _

 

**_Weird how? SH_ **

 

_ Grenaline _

 

Sherlock frowned. Then sent back a grimacing emoji. That one looked sufficiently angry.

 

**_Anything else? SH_ **

 

“John,” Sherlock called out, still looking at his phone. 

 

John was reading the messages as well, and looked at Sherlock from over his mug.

 

_ No _

 

“What’s grenaline?” John asked. “Like the stuff in egg timers and things?”

 

It was a useless substance that got diluted down with synthetics in order to make anything of use nowadays. It was cheap and notoriously bad for the environment, leeching atmospheric magic at inefficient rates, causing the earth to heat up and all that. 

 

Maybe the murderer didn’t have as many means as Sherlock thought he did. He rethought the profile; if not a well off person causing terror on a whim, perhaps a young radical instead? The first murderer would still have been by proxy, a hired thug who could carry it out. He would still have to have some finances to orchestrate such a thing. But was it for kicks, or to see if he could? If the transfusion device was homemade, they were more likely dealing with a tech-savvy and younger perp who had no clear end game—or at least, not a very worthwhile one.

 

Sherlock had a sudden thought. Was the man an outcast, perhaps a Zero hungry for magic of his own, and tinkering away in a basement to find a way to get it? To take from those who shunned him, because he was good enough and could prove it? He shivered, not knowing why, and shoved the sentiment behind the thought away. It might have been something he  _ could _ do, but he was never inclined to. Not one bit. He didn’t have to be so crass to be clever. 

 

Molly had likely sent the information over to the detectives by now as well, which meant they would be tracking down manufacturing leads soon and he could intercept them if he so wished.

 

But no, they were of no use at this point.

 

They’d chase the wrong thing around for a while and not get anywhere, not before the killer struck again and made his pattern clear, made his motives clearer.

 

There was someone else Sherlock needed to see.

 

“Would you like to get some tea?” Sherlock asked instead of responding.

 

John gave him a long stare, steaming mug still in hand. But when no answer was forthcoming he sighed, wondered why he was still surprised, and replied.

 

“I am literally drinking a mug of tea right now, Sherlock. Did you want me to make you one as well?” he said.

 

“No, there is a cafe not three blocks from campus, and we must go there tonight.”

 

》》》

 

Alas, as a student of the university, Sherlock still had classes. It was such a pity—he initially thought it would be interesting pretending to be a 47% among 40s while having no magic, none at all. 

 

But this  _ murder _ took the cake and now he could think of nothing else. Everything else the university had to offer seemed bland by comparison. What was conning a professor compared to catching Jack the Ripper’s copycat?

 

Those were the thoughts swirling through his mind as he crashed into a silver-haired man and his companion. A quick glance told Sherlock they were both detectives, and a second later his brain caught up with the picture and supplied him with the information that he’d met the companion two days ago in the morgue.

 

Excitement buzzing between his ears, Sherlock quickly took in the situation, noticing the papers in one’s hand and the expressions of distress and mild annoyance. A plan was already brewing in his mind. Perfect.

 

“Detectives,” Sherlock said, nodding to each man in greeting. “How can I help you?”

 

“Excuse me?” the older one asked.

 

“Oh it’s you again,” the other one said with some surprise. “Inspector Lestrade, this is that psychic I told you about, the one we ran into in that mugging case.”

 

“Psychic detective,” Sherlock corrected. “A consulting one.”

 

Lestrade just squinted at him, before giving the other detective—something Peters?—a look of dismissal and then turned around to leave.

 

“Missing persons, case, isn’t it?” Sherlock called out after him. “One of our students. I can help you, know you.”

 

They stopped. Ah, he was correct then. He knew he had to be; what else could have someone at the level of detective inspector come down to the university?

 

“I’m sure Scotland Yard will manage just fine without the aid of a... _ psychic detective, _ ” he replied, giving Sherlock a tight lipped smile that was really closer to a grimace.

 

That, Sherlock could respect. But he had no time for respect with a  _ murderer _ on the loose! For all he knew, and it was likely, the missing student was linked to the false mugging. He had to throw something to catch their attention before they left.

 

“Ah!” Sherlock cried out, flinging his limbs askew, doing his best to look as if a vision was coming to him. 

 

“The missing student, he was a 25%, wasn’t he?” Sherlock said. The looks of surprise on the detectives’ faces confirmed it, even if the older one was better at concealing his expressions than the other.

 

“And he...I’m getting trainers, white ones, with mud on them,” Sherlock continued nonsensically. “And a night of drinking. His roommate said he hadn’t seen him, but he wasn’t worried at first. No, there was a party, it was normal. Until he missed an important class. There was a test that day—there’s a test today...”

 

Peters’ jaw dropped, and Sherlock knew he had them. Really, none of the things he said were that unusual. The same could be said for about three-quarters of the student population, more if they were in Sherlock’s year, which he seemed to be.

 

“And he was a first year,” Sherlock added, mentally pumping his fist when he saw Lestrade purse his lips. He definitely had their attention now.

 

“I can help you,” he repeated himself. And if he helped solve this case, it occured to Sherlock, it could open the doors to so many more. Detectives only brought on consultants when there was something particularly difficult, didn’t they? And those were the only cases he wanted anything to do with.

 

Lestrade seemed to be at odds with himself for a moment before he finally said, “There is protocol—”

 

_ Yes! _

 

“I have a file, and I have references,” Sherlock said quickly. He really did, thanks to his brother. “Have someone look them up. In the meantime, we must go! Before the trail gets cold.”

 

The detective sighed, but didn’t do anything more to stop Sherlock from following. 

 

Then Peters turned around and gave Sherlock a funny look.

 

“Don’t you have any classes to be in?”

 

》》》

 

Sherlock later learned, while the detectives inspected the missing student’s dorm room, that their names were Greg Lestrade and Peter Jones. He rifled through the boy’s things as they interviewed the roommate, and he found nothing suspicious. This was not the site of his abduction.

 

“Well, I mean, sometimes he comes in late. Past midnight maybe? Sometimes I’m already sleeping,” the roommate was saying, or rather, rambling in confusion. They’d been roommates for under two weeks. They completely different areas of interest and study. They just liked that each kept out of the other’s way.

 

“We’re not going to find anything here,” Sherlock said brashly, standing up from where he was poking around under the bed and smoothing out his coat. “The roommate doesn’t know anything, and this isn’t where he was taken.”

 

“ _ Taken _ —”

 

“Yes, taken,” Sherlock said. “The victim clearly intended to come back to this disgustingly now-molded sandwich and his roommate here doesn’t know him well enough to give us even a reasonable time frame. The sandwich knows him much better.”

 

“Now, let’s retrace his steps—we should head over to the pre-med classes,” Sherlock continued.

 

“Pre-med?” Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I...smelled it,” Sherlock said, waving his arms around as if the essence of pre-med was wafting through the room. The roommate sniffed. 

 

“Right,” Lestrade said. It was an obvious one, actually, because the student was a 25% and the only department that took students below a 40% was pre-med. 

 

Then Sherlock whipped out his phone to text John as the detectives finished up their interview.

 

**_You must come immediately!! SH_ **

 

After some moments, the message finally registered as read, and then his phone indicated John Watson was typing away, for about an eternity.

 

_ Um. I’m in class? _

 

**_Do you know a student by the name of Harry Mander? SH_ **

 

_ I think so? I think we have o-chem together, because he was just a few tables down. That was last week though, didn’t see him Tuesday.  _

 

If this case was indeed related to the mugging as Sherlock suspected, the victim was likely already dead. It might have been unfortunate, but the truth was that now what they were really waiting for was a body. 

 

Sherlock exhaled slowly as he typed out his next message.

 

**_I think the same serial killer who orchestrated the fake mugging took Mander. SH_ **

 

The reply was a long time coming.

 

_ Where are you now? _

 

》》》

 

The detective trio were retracing Mander’s steps, trying to determine at which point he was taken, which would lead to clues as to who and why, when John Watson showed up in the hallway.

 

“Um. Hello,” he said, giving the group an awkward wave. Sherlock, for some reason, looked like he was having the time of his life, and strode over so he could introduce John.

 

“Detectives, this is John Watson, another pre-med student, who will no doubt be of tremendous aid in this case,” he said. “John, these are Detective 1 and Detective 2.”

 

“Sherlock!” John said. “You can’t just—”

 

And then Sherlock left them to make their own introductions as he pushed past John into the organic chemistry lab to poke around.

 

They followed in just a moment later, after Sherlock had already gotten a sweep of the place.

 

“I’m sensing...roast beef?” Sherlock said contemplatively. 

 

“Well, I guess it is getting close to lunch, isn’t it?” Jones joked. “I’m feeling a bit peckish myself.”

 

“Lunch!” Sherlock pointed and walked over. “Yes, yes that’s it. John what time did you say this class was?”

 

“Um. It starts at 10 in the morning and lets out at quarter past noon,” John said.

 

“Aha, and most of the students head directly to lunch don’t they? Through that same door we just entered. But not Mander. Oh no, he,” Sherlock started, striding across the room to push open the back door. “He would go out through here.”

 

“How— how did you know that?” John asked. Sherlock knew because Mander was a smoker, as gleaned from his bedroom, and the back door led to an ugly patch of grass behind the building, with narrow spaces between buildings, where other smokers might linger.

 

“I sensed it,” Sherlock replied instead. “Obviously.”

 

Lestrade gave Sherlock a suspicious look as he walked past him to look outside the door. “Smelled it, you mean?” he asked innocently. “Mander must have been smoking.”

 

“Does this space lead to anywhere else?” the detective asked John.

 

“Um, the backs of three other buildings,” John said. “The narrow alley-things don’t really go anywhere. Just dead ends.”

 

Sherlock stood back for a moment as the other three stepped out the door and down the steps. Where did that path lead, anyway? A few of the alleys were dead ends. The backs of three university buildings formed a little, unattractive triangle here. 

 

Ah, the basement.

 

No, school security would be a difficult thing to maneuver around.

 

But all the labs surrounding this little dark patch of space…

 

“Jones, get the security tapes for the week,” Lestrade said, pointing at the cameras atop two doors leading out to the space. Sherlock mentally berated himself for not having gotten to the tapes before leading the detectives here.

 

“Oh! Um…” John trailed off, rubbing his nose in a bit of a concerning way.

 

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

 

“They don’t actually, you know, work,” John said hesitantly.

 

A pause.

 

“What?” Jones asked.

 

“I mean, okay so the first week, right, some students were going out there to have a smoke, and I didn’t know this wasn’t the proper exit and I headed out through here, ended up having to go through the Mathematics department to find my way back out, anyway, one boy was joking about pushing the cameras up, and then an older student laughed and said it wasn’t even necessary, because the cameras had stopped working over the summer, and they hadn’t got around to replacing them quite yet,” John said. 

 

They stared at him.

 

“I mean, I haven’t verified it myself or anything. Just figured I should say,” he finished quickly.

 

Lestrade’s expression was considerably more grim this time, but he turned to Jones again, and asked him, “Check the tapes.”

 

》》》

 

It turned out there  _ was _ surveillance footage, but they started on Wednesday. By Sherlock’s estimation, that was one or two days after the victim had already been abducted. 

 

Could the perpetrator not have known about the cameras as well? And then, while trying to get rid of evidence, he realized there was no footage at all to begin with.

 

But then why fix the cameras?

 

“John,” Sherlock said from the armchair he’d found in a thrift store and carried all the way into their dorm room.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Would you recognize that older student again if you saw him?”

 

“Erm. Which one?”

 

“The one who said the cameras were down,” Sherlock replied.

 

“Oh. Maybe? A bit scruffy, green jacket. I think he had dark hair, shorn short? Was with a girl. Might be able to recognize him. Can’t quite describe his features though,” John said. “Why?”

 

“Come look through his yearbook for me,” Sherlock said, flipping through pages and pages of student headshots. John took the book over and started perusing. “I’ve done you the favor of circling the ones who took summer classes.”

 

“Is this really that important though?” he asked. Squinting at some of the images. The context was completely different, and he wasn’t sure this would help.

 

“Maybe, maybe not,” Sherlock said, before hopping up and grabbing his coat.

 

“Hey, where are you going?” John said, a bit affronted that now he was going to have to sort through these headshots on his own.

 

“To class, John, obviously.”

 

》》》

 

Sherlock Holmes did not go to class.

 

Sherlock made his way up the steps of an old government building located on a side street. It wasn’t one of the important, impressive looking ones. It was one of the necessary, unglamorous office buildings that looked about as appealing as the department it housed, in this case, taxes.

 

The receptionist at the front got up and looked as if she made to stop him, until Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling out a visitor’s pass, a real one, and held it out straight at her, not waiting for her reply before barrelling down the hall and flinging open the door at the end of it.

 

It was a small office, but located it possibly the most private part of the floor, whereas the rest of it was mainly cubicles of different, but equally awful, sorts. 

 

“So you’ve made a friend,” Mycroft said to his brother in lieu of a greeting.

 

Sherlock scrunched up his face, not wanting to know if this meant Mycroft had been spying on him, or had sensed it magically (as a child, Mycroft had actually, briefly, conned Sherlock into believing he could read his mind at any given moment), or just knew his own brother so well.  He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking, but he was going to make his displeasure clear.

 

He sat in one of the two ugly chairs before Mycroft’s desk, noticing that everything in the office seemed to be made of cheap wood, which must have chafed at his brother’s old money sensibilities. 

 

“And you’ve lumbered out of your cave to mingle with us mere mortals,” Sherlock said in an exaggerated monotone, pointedly eyeing the chocolate wrapper on the desk until his brother got flustered and threw it in the bin. “Oh we’ve both come so far.”

 

Then he peered at his brother, expression smug. “Your assistant tells me you’ve been seeing someone.”

 

“Alright, what is it that you want?” Mycroft asked. 

 

“So I’ve got this case—” Sherlock started.

 

“The Detective Inspector won’t have any problems with you running around, especially since he’s about to notice that their department actually has a hefty budget for consultants, and they’ll certainly need it for insurance with you causing the sort of scenes you so love to,” Mycroft replied easily.

 

Sherlock scowled. Technically it was welcome news, but it wasn’t what he was here to  _ ask. _ And if his brother wanted a ‘thank you,’ he certainly wasn’t getting it from him. Show off.

 

“Have there been any other missing persons cases recently?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Other?”

 

“Ones that haven’t been called in. Not 48-hours official yet,” he said.

 

“Why are you asking me?”

 

“I know you can look it up quickly,” Sherlock said.

 

“And I know that you are perfectly capable of building a network that can supply you with information, Sherlock,” his brother said, quite patronizingly. “You know you must learn how to ask others for help. It doesn’t always mean just  _ asking. _ ”

 

“What does it look like I’m doing  _ now _ ?” Sherlock retorted, exasperated, kicking his legs out. 

 

“Not from  _ me. _ You’ve got to cultivate your own contacts. Your little psychic detective business is never going to get off the ground otherwise,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “Sherlock, as you must already be beginning to understand, one cannot survive in this world alone.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. Spying, then. It was better than the idea of Mycroft in his head. Or worse, that he knew Sherlock so well he didn’t need to get in his head.

 

“Is this your roundabout way of admitting you don’t know any more about what’s going on than I am?” Sherlock hedged. That made Mycroft laugh. Out loud. So annoying. 

 

“Oh, I forget how clumsy you are sometimes,” Mycroft said, shoulders still shaking. “That was fun. Do come to visit again. I’m glad university is treating you so well.”

 

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him before slamming the door.

 

》》》

 

In Sherlock’s excitement, he’d jumped the gun and visited his brother earlier than planned, but all in all, it was just as well, because he let himself get so riled up he couldn’t ask the proper questions.

 

He’d go again later, and bring John this time.

 

Sherlock looked at his phone and sighed realizing he had three hours to kill. Maybe he’d actually go to class. 

 

》》》

 

As much as Sherlock’s clumsy deductions had been amusing, the fact remained that there was a string of deaths occurring, and very little attention was being drawn to it.

 

His younger brother suspected a serial killer, missing the obvious fact that if that were the case, the killer would have gotten off on the attention and notoriety that came with the domain. Not hiding in the shadows like this.

 

Mycroft sat back and mentally mapped the information he had. There’d been seven deaths, all seemingly discrete locations. He suspected if he really combed through hospital and hospice center files, he could find quite a few more. They’d been busy then—it must have been a “they”—there was more than one pair of hands carrying out the killings and abductions.

 

Experiments then.

 

But for what?, was his first thought. It doesn’t matter, we just need the means to stop it, was his second thought.

 

Stopping everything seemed...easy by comparison. He could even leave it to the police (and now, he supposed, his brother as well). They could make it very difficult for the criminals to get the metals they were transporting, and then by necessity the deaths would stop. For how long? That would give clues as to the aim of the experiments. 

 

They should be looking for bodies now. 

 

The one at the morgue suggested someone was draining magic, as Sherlock had put it. But his brother missed the fact that it was not for personal use.

 

The killer in that instance may not have been a 45% for most of his life, as Sherlock had correctly deduced, but he certainly was after the fact. Mycroft was sure Sherlock would be putting together that information himself by now.

 

And what would a 45% want with more magic?

 

A sudden spike of anxiety seized his body, as he remembered similar words uttered to him just a few days ago.

 

No…

 

Could he have something to do with it?

 

Mycroft rubbed at his temples, then sent for some tea and prison records.

 

》》》

 

**ZERO HATE CRIMES?**

**MURDER INVESTIGATION HAS NEW LEAD**

 

“John,” Sherlock cried in dismay, waving the newspaper around. That mugging gone wrong had been updated as a front page headline, main story and all. “How could we have missed this?”

 

“Erm, this is a dorm address, Sherlock, if you hadn’t noticed. I’m not sure the post is as reliable when it has to go through those extra pesky checkpoints,” John said, eyeing the paper with some concern. “Is that true?”

 

“What?” Sherlock glanced back down at the paper. “No, of course not. Apparently the journalists of our fine city see fit to publish whatever they’d like. Word got out that the mugging victim tested as a Zero and now they’re twisting facts. They’ve lumped this death with another one that apparently happened early morning, a ‘bar fight gone wrong,’ it says, and I can’t believe we missed this.”

 

“So the other man, the one in the bar fight, he was a Zero too?” John said, taking a seat on his bed. “I can’t imagine people would still do such a thing.”

 

Sherlock leveled him a glance and then went back to the paper.  

 

“We’ve got to examine the body, John,” he said instead. 

 

John, the ever adaptable friend, just sighed and got his coat.

 

》》》

 

Molly was wearing a cheery yellow cardigan under her lab coat this time, with little smiley cat faces embroidered into the edge. Sherlock wondered whether the idea was that, because no one would ever see her outfits underneath the lab gear, she could pull on whatever was lying around and it didn’t matter, or if it was precisely because no one would see them that she went all out and wore her favorite, craziest articles of clothing.

 

Strange woman, she was.

 

She smiled at the two university students, greeting them as if they were all friends who had plans to meet for brunch, not a clandestine, night-time morgue trip. Though technically, Sherlock was legitimately a consultant now, and nothing they were doing was strictly illegal.

 

“What have you got for me, Molly Hooper?” Sherlock said, clapping his hands, as John and Molly traded greetings like normal, civilized humans.

 

“Oh, well, um, this one is even weirder than the last, if you can believe it,” she said, coming around the table to unveil the corpse, subtly trying to keep Sherlock from contaminating evidence.

 

“Blunt trauma to the head,” she continued, as John and Sherlock leaned over to examine the body. “It seems like he was pushed, really hard, and smashed his head against a wall or something like it. And then there’s this bit of his neck that’s...gouged out. Likely to conceal those puncture wounds, because this man was drained of his magic as well. He was choked too, but he didn’t die from it. Though you’ll already know that from the papers, I suppose.”

 

“He’s not a Zero,” Molly said earnestly. 

 

“No, of course not,” Sherlock replied. 

 

“He’s  _ was _ a 20% according to his record. He did have a record, a proper one I mean, like he was in prison briefly, aggravated assault, breaking and entering,” she said.

 

“20%,” Sherlock repeated. “Was there any residual magic this time? What was the attacker?”

 

Molly frowned, then referred back to the reports as Sherlock loomed over her to read them as well. “If I remember correctly, it was unclear...ah here, see, the body was moved, and there were several signatures floating around, so it seemed like it was too contaminated to be of any real use. There was a 25%, a 50%, so that couldn’t have been accurate.”

 

“There wasn’t a 45%?” Sherlock asked, and frowned.

 

“No, but there was one more, another 20%,” Molly said, putting the report back down.

 

“But 20 and 25 make 45…” Sherlock murmured.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked.

 

Molly turned to him as well.

 

“I know that face,” John explained. “That’s his, ‘I’ve got an idea face,’ and it usually happens right before he gets a very bad idea. Or a vision.” 

 

“Oh,” Molly responded.

 

Except, this time, Sherlock was silent. The two were connected, they  _ had _ to be connected, but he didn’t know how. Or why. Or have any proof.

 

“No other bruises or wounds?” he asked aloud, pacing back and forth beside the body now. “He was choked, then shoved back hard enough that it killed him, then had a bit of his neck gouged out...no, he was choked by magic, because there are no other signs of him having been restrained. So he was held up by the neck with magic as they drained him, then thrown back and killed.”

 

“The killer must have ranked high, then,” he contemplated, still pacing. Then he stopped. Molly and John were watching him expectantly, and he had been so caught and comfortable with them that he forgot to put on a show. 

 

“It’s like Molly said,” he sniffed, waving a hand dismissively. “The residual magic is all mixed up, contaminated. I can’t get a clear read.”

 

It was maddening.

 

Sherlock wondered, briefly, what Mycroft would do. 

 

If he had had 49% magic, or, hell, if he had really been 47%—would he have been able to  _ really  _ sense something more?

 

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered quietly.

 

“Oh?” John asked.

 

“I was wrong. Not a serial killer then,” he said, still quiet. “There’s no signature.”

 

Then Sherlock started to move, elaborate gestures as if the words were coming to him from the Great Beyond.

 

“I see a cunning man, obscured by shadows, pulling all the strings,” Sherlock said. “He’s not targeting any _ one, _ oh no it’s much worse. He kills indiscriminately because he’s trying to amass all this magic. But it must not be working. He’s created a device with which to siphon another’s magic— _ without their knowledge or consent _ —but the device is—it’s incomplete. It doesn’t always work. He’s still refining it. Improving it. That’s why there’s been multiple victims.”

 

“He needs magic, and he doesn’t care who he kills to get it,” Sherlock finished ominously. “Our killer isn’t targeting Zeros—he’s a Zero himself.”

 

Molly’s eyes were wide, and John’s mouth was open in disbelief.

 

“Are you sure?” he asked tentatively.

 

No, no he wasn’t. It  _ felt _ right, but he had neither proof of the magical nor physical sort. But really, as impossible as it all sounded,  _ there was no other explanation. _

 

And if the events of the past few days were anything to go by, if Sherlock’s  _ identity _ was anything to go by, then the impossible was really not so impossible.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. 

 

》》》

 

Mycroft smiled to himself as he sipped his tea. He’d brought two books this time. A collection of poems with references to magic folk, of the old studies variety, and a fairy tale compilation. He supposed an anthology of  _ Bluebeard _ and related works and analyses would have been an odd, even morbid, gift for anyone else. But predictably, Jim seemed to be enjoying it (he went for that one first).

 

“And what secrets do you have locked up, Mycroft?” he asked, looking up from the book.

 

It was then that the door opened, saving him from coming up with a suitable lie, but irritatingly interrupting what he had come to think of as  _ their _ time. 

 

But the irritation turned into surprise as Sherlock burst through the door, his new friend following closely. 

 

“Sherlock—”

 

“Really, Mycroft, a cafe? You’re not the whimsical leading lady of romantic comedy,” Sherlock said, pulling up a chair directly behind Mycroft so that he would have to turn around. His friend, seeming to have more manners than Sherlock (well, who didn’t?) offered his hand instead, and introduced himself.

 

“John Watson, nice to er, meet you, though Sherlock didn’t really tell me much on the way over,” John said, and Mycroft took his hand. “Sherlock and I go to school together,” he added.

 

“Mycroft Holmes,” he said with a sigh. “Sherlock’s brother.”

 

John’s eyes went wide with that, and had he been looking, he would’ve noticed Jim’s eyebrows go up as well. 

 

“Oh!” John said. “He’s mentioned you, only in passing though. Did say you were also in London.”

 

Impatient, Sherlock got back up, then squinted at the books on the bar behind his brother, and raised an eyebrow at him.

 

Mycroft sighed again, confirming what he hoped Sherlock wouldn’t verbalize. These were not parts of his life he wanted to overlap, not when there were so many uncertain factors.

 

“What do you need, Sherlock?” he asked instead, trying to lean into his nosy younger brother’s field of vision. 

 

“Interestingly enough, I needed to borrow a book from your library, but you weren’t home,” Sherlock replied, sounding far, far too smug. So his brother had two motives then, and one of them was to tease Mycroft in front of the first non-work-related colleague he’d met since school. This was just like him.

 

“Hi,” Jim interjected, leaning past Mycroft to offer Sherlock his hand, lazy smile on his face. 

 

“You must be the brother then. He’s mentioned you as well,” Jim said in a soft voice, before trading greetings and a nod with John as well. “Very pleased to meet you. 

 

Sherlock looked at his hand just a second too long to be polite, before quickly shaking it and shoving his hand back into his pocket.

 

“Did he now?” he asked. 

 

“Intelligence and magic must run in the family, he mentioned you got into Oberon,” Jim said, pulling out another pair of teacups. 

 

“Oh, no thank you, we won’t be staying long,” Sherlock held up a hand. 

 

“Oh I insist,” Jim said.

 

“No, no, Mycroft, I just need your keys,” Sherlock said.

 

Mycroft pursed his lips to refrain from sighing one too many times in the span of mere minutes because, he supposed, that’s what younger siblings were for, after all. 

 

Then he got up from his stool, buttoned his jacket, and turned to Jim.

 

“I suppose I’ll be taking off now.” Mycroft smiled just briefly. “Do enjoy the books.”

 

Then he turned to Sherlock and John, arms outstretched to usher them out as quickly as humanly possible. 

 

“Oh Mycroft, you didn’t  _ have _ to come with us,” Sherlock said with feigned, largely exaggerated emotion as they stepped out the door.

 

He sighed.

 

》》》

 

The walk back to Mycroft’s apartment was brief, with John and Sherlock bickering casually over Sherlock’s lack of manners, Mycroft being a weirdo, and the fact that the both of them had morning classes the next day. 

 

Once inside, Sherlock directed John to the study and then decided to linger back with Mycroft by the door.

 

“So was what I interrupted a date or…”

 

Mycroft just gave Sherlock a very flat stare.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, intending to rib him some more, then hesitated, seeming to remember something.

 

“You did see the odd bruise on his left hand and wrist?” Sherlock asked in a quiet voice. “Odd, for a barista.”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, perhaps a little too harsh. He should be touched his brother was worried for him, not worried that Jim might so easily draw scrutiny.

 

“It’s new,” Sherlock continued to push, not reading Mycroft’s tone. “And considering the second death in the papers this week—”

 

“ _ Sherlock. _ ”

 

Sherlock stared at his brother a long moment, then relented, heading into the study. “Alright, alright.”

 

“I suppose you know what you’re doing,” Mycroft heard Sherlock say from the other room.

 

He sank back to lean against his front door, running a hand down his face. What  _ was _ he doing?

 

》》》

 

Later, the three of them were sitting on the floor of Mycroft’s study—or, well, Sherlock was occasionally pacing the room before diving back into the piles of books and papers, and Mycroft was occasionally remembering himself and getting up to sit in a chair before getting sucked back into the debate, and John was keeping up surprisingly well, asking pertinent questions every now and then, before he’d started to nod off.

 

“Two hundred years of research, and no one knows for sure whether a magic transfusion can be done with one of the parties being a Zero?” Sherlock asked, nearly tugging his hair out with frustration by now.

 

“Well, it doesn’t sound impossible either, depending on the case,” Mycroft mused. “As we know there are Zeros who never had any affinity to absorb magic, and those who did but somehow ended up with none and their fates were sealed possibly just a tad too soon. Then there is the tribe where every young child is given a portion of their parents’ magic, and surely one of those must have been a Zero.”

 

“But there’s yet to be proof,” Sherlock grumbled.

 

“Yes, that’s true.”

 

Mycroft was uncharacteristically quiet, and Sherlock knew he must have been calculating the ways he might have been able to allow Sherlock to really become a 47%, or at least have mitigated him being an absolute Zero his entire life. That wasn’t his intention.

 

Sherlock had  _ never _ regretted that he was the way he was. 

 

He was different, and it was his favorite thing about himself.

 

He didn’t want to get a shot, and then become like everyone else.

 

“The thought of it makes me shudder,” he opted to say aloud, hoping his brother would discern his intention, even though John was in the room and he couldn’t elaborate.

 

“I suppose it does,” Mycroft said, still contemplatively. 

 

At that, John gave a snort and jolted awake, flinging limbs around unattractively.

 

“I guess we should go home,” Sherlock said. 

 

》》》

 

As they walked back, the two of them seemed to alternate turns for yawning, trudging slowly the entire way.

 

“You know, that barista looked awfully familiar,” John said out of nowhere.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Can’t quite seem to place him though…”

 

“Try again in the morning,” Sherlock suggested.

 

》》》

 

Jim looked so terribly sad the next night and it took everything Mycroft had in him to ask if he would rather Mycroft leave.

 

That made Jim jump back, literally, as if he was so shocked Mycroft would offer to. Mycroft had to admit, he was taken aback too.

 

“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Mycroft said gently, and, to his surprise, honestly. “This is a rather strange shift, and I can’t imagine it’s been easy to keep it up. I can assure you I wouldn’t be put out if you suddenly changed store hours.”

 

“That’s...not it,” Jim said, not looking at him, and frustrated. 

 

“I like talking to you,” he continued, angry tone at odds with the kind words. “I like that you bring me books and answer my stupid questions and aren’t afraid of magic.”

 

Jim rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then scowled at the pot of tea before him. He picked it up and stomped over to the sink, dumping it out.

 

“Jim.”

 

“I oversteeped it,” he bit out.

 

“Jim,” Mycroft said again. “Come here.”

 

He stilled, and for a moment Mycroft thought Jim wasn’t going to do it, that he was going to tell Mycroft to leave after all. But then he set down the teapot and walked back over. 

 

Mycroft held out his hand and Jim looked at it, hesitated, then finally placed his own on top of his, not looking at Mycroft’s face.

 

“I would,” Mycroft took in a deep breath. “I would never hurt you.”

 

He could feel Jim still completely, and couldn’t bring himself to look him in the face either, unsure whether it was good or bad. He couldn’t even fully explain why he needed to say it, but he barrelled on.

 

“I promise that,” Mycroft continued, and Jim’s hand suddenly squeezed his, all too hard. “I would do everything in my power to prevent that.”

 

“You can’t  _ say _ that,” Jim whispered, voice so broken that Mycroft’s eyes jolted up to his. He looked like he’d been struck, reeling back, a wild-eyed panic flashing across his face for a moment. 

 

Mycroft cleared his throat, thinking he’d done everything  _ wrong _ , just completely  _ wrong _ , and tried to pull his hand back, but Jim’s grip was like steel, and the air around it seemed to fizz.

 

Jim closed his eyes and took a long, pained breath. When he opened them again, he seemed calm, calmer at least, and resolved. 

 

Then, almost as if reciting something, he returned the promise. 

 

“I won’t hurt you either; you have my word,” he said quietly. Then Jim let go of Mycroft’s hand as if it burned, and turned back to the sink, swiping an arm across his eyes. 

 

The rest of the night was a quiet one, as if the two of them had run out of words after that. But they huddled closer than they’d ever been, over a pair of cups of the darkest tea Mycroft had ever had.

 

》》》

 

The next night was the one when everything went wrong.

 

At 8 in the morning, Mycroft woke to a very disturbing text from his brother asking about transfusions and corpses (the answer was No., both scientifically, and as a concerned big brother who knew his sibling had access to a morgue now, and could finagle his way into “borrowing” a transfusion IV with enough will and cunning).

 

Then came the news that the number of deaths per day in hospitals and hospices had in fact subtly increased over the past week, which would not have been suspicious, given that the slight bump was normal for this time of year. Except that this all lined up too neatly with the number of ex-cons who had suddenly found themselves employed as drivers and delivery men at grocers and driving companies and other places of business that made contact with the institutions once a week. 

 

No one but Mycroft would have thought to make the connection.

 

It got worse when he finally let himself look up something he had been putting off, and pulled up any information on The Spider’s Web available in their databases. To call it unsuspicious now would be have been a blatant lie. The magic signatures were all clearly forged. The destination itself was perfect for concealing any number of things, from money laundering to a pitstop for traffickers, or, a voice in the back of Mycroft’s mind said, a  _ lab. _

 

There was Jim with his knack for figures and sums and mixtures of an unworldly sort, with an ever-hungry mind for anything magic, a bruise that indicated he’d gotten into a rather vicious fight hours before a man was found beaten and dead, and the secrets he wore like a robe. 

 

That wasn’t the worst part—the worst part, Mycroft thought, was Mycroft telling himself this was all suspicious, but didn’t point to one specific thing. 

 

Or perhaps it was when, an hour later, tests he’d ordered himself regarding the bar fight victim came back and implied that the man who died in a “bar fight” was in fact the one who killed the victim of the ”mugging.”

 

Somebody had given this 20% nobody a way to increase his magic to the high 40s, all he would have to do was kill a man, a perfectly average man. It wasn’t a burden; he’d killed before.

 

But this somebody evidently also had the power to take it away, if he started flouting orders. 

 

And something so taboo as what they were doing, of course they could leave no loose ends. If he disobeyed, he’d have to die.

 

How was Jim doing it?

 

No, how was—

 

He had to go back to the start. 

 

The grenaline, what did that have to do with it?

 

Was it the key to this new transfusion device?

 

He could search the cafe…

 

No, he wouldn’t be so careless as to leave it around where it could be so easily connected. Could he? Hiding it in plain sight. Among the rows of coffee bean sacks and tea leaf boxes. A bust would uncover it so easily. Except it wasn’t illegal. Though he’d have no way to explain it away. 

 

Was that why he was so kind to Mycroft? 

 

Why he was reeling him in?

 

Why was he  _ taunting _ him so openly?

 

All sorts of doubts started swirling around Mycroft, and he didn’t know what to believe anymore.

 

The important question was, when it came down to it, would he arrest Jim?

 

No, this wasn’t a shoot first, questions later scenario yet. Was it? 

 

Mycroft felt knocked askew, completely untethered, and so he let himself detach from the situation and draw up a plan for a hypothetical criminal mastermind. It was an effective plan; they would set a trap for the man and one of his hired hands would lead them straight to the source. He then drew up a plan to contain someone with that level of cunning and magic, and let himself write in every contingency and hypothetical. Every event to watch for and anything that could go wrong. He was methodical, and dedicated, and he did not let himself think of who this prison might be for, or what they might say once they were caught.

 

He buried his heart in order to do his duty.

 

He’d done it once before, and he’d thought it was the hardest thing he had ever done, but he’d gotten through it fine, and he could do it again.

 

That wasn’t the worst part.

 

The worst part was when he went back to The Spider’s Web that night, and quietly asked Jim what he’d been up to two mornings before.

 

And they both went very, very still, because they both knew what the question was about. He didn’t have to say a word for Mycroft to understand his answer.

 

“What have you gotten yourself into, Jim?” Mycroft asked softly.

 

“You know I can’t tell you that,” he said, voice as chilly as it had ever been.

 

“I can still—”

 

“I don’t  _ owe _ you  _ anything, _ ” Jim hissed. 

 

Mycroft just stared. 

 

Well.

 

That was that, he supposed.

 

The secrets were out now, and there was no going back. 

 

He set down his cup, and got up to leave. Jim didn’t say anything to stop him.

 

Mycroft went to bed numb and unfeeling, and the worst part hadn’t hit him yet.

 

》》》

 

The next morning, Mycroft opened his front door to a find a package on the steps. Three books, stacked one upon another, wrapped in yesterday’s newsprint, and tied together with a piece of twine. No note. No need—they were the volumes he’d lent out only days ago.

 

That was the worst part. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re all so much younger than in canon that I think in this time in their lives they’re also a bit more on edge and unfinished as people...


	5. 4. Things Jim learned after leaving school

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has a very Tragic Backstory that Mycroft has yet to unlock. They shouldn’t have promised each other anything. Things get very bad, but it’s all so very _exciting._

 

Jim Moriarty was 4 years old when he pointed out the window and asked who the White Woman was.

 

His father replied, “Shut the damn boy up!” and his mother cast him a worried look and said there was no one there, to eat his dinner, and go to bed.

 

So he ate his dinner, and watched the woman push her bone-white, spindly fingers up against the glass and breathe frost over it through her corpse-blue lips.

 

Then he put himself to bed, and fell asleep listening to her scratch her fingernails down his bedroom wall. It wasn’t important. He wasn’t important. 

 

》》》

 

At age 5, Jim learned he was different.

 

He was tested late; it wasn’t until he already started school and there was a mandatory health examination that the doctors realized there were large gaps in his medical history, and the school demanded to meet with the parents. 

 

It wasn’t unheard of that some family might “forget” to have their children get all their shots and checkups, but it couldn’t be done. Young Jim’s parents weren’t particularly apologetic, but signed consent for the school to give him the proper checkups and tests easily. They did so that the school would stop  _ calling them _ over bloody stupid things like a goddamn shot, his father said, angrily, into the phone, when the school-assigned physician made an urgent call one night.

 

He’d done the tests three whole times, the physician explained, so the results couldn’t be wrong, but their son wasn’t normal.

 

Of course he isn’t normal, he’s a bloody stupid little shit, always staring at things that aren’t there and talking to himself, his father explained, not reading the fear and urgency of the doctor’s tone.

 

But that confirmed it.

 

“Sir, your son’s blood is 51% live magic,” the doctor said firmly. “He’s inhuman.”

 

The house was quiet for a moment, then the little sprites—the ones who were alternately mean or nice to Jim depending on the day (sometimes they pulled out his hair, but sometimes they brought him wonderful, shiny things)—started laughing. 

 

_ It's raiining _

 

_ It's pouriiing _

 

“What?” Jim’s father asked. His mother was sitting on the couch knitting, pretending she hadn’t heard a thing. So Jim pretended too.

 

_ Humans! So boring... _

 

Whatever the doctor said, it wasn’t good, because his father hung up the phone with a slam and then stomped out of the house. And when he returned hours later, it was with a gun.

 

》》》

 

Jim didn’t go back to school after that. 

 

There was no point, with no parents, no doctors, and nothing to learn there. 

 

_ If they know, they’ll kill you _ , one of the sprites had whispered conspiratorially from his shoulder, as Jim stood over the horrified doctor and wondered what he was here to do. 

 

_ Ashes, ashes, they all fall down _

 

“Who else knows?” Jim asked aloud. He already knew no one else could hear the little creatures that crawled all over his house. Like an infestation. 

 

No one else knew. The doctor was telling the truth. So he burned the papers, and let the papers burn the alcohol-soaked office. 

 

A day later, it occured to Jim that he ought to write the doctor a goodbye letter, and hide it somewhere personal, in case people got curious. 

 

At age 5, Jim also learned he was adaptable.

 

》》》

 

He wandered, after that, and realized that even though he could see the strange and horrible creatures that floated between the people and buildings of Real Life, he was not one of them.

 

He learned that they had to hide their names, there were places they could not go, and they had picky, peculiar rules to stick by.

 

But they could disappear when he couldn’t. And he could hurt when they couldn’t. They only wanted to play with him, but they didn’t care enough to help him.

 

But as a very small boy, he realized it wasn’t very hard to take what he needed.

 

And as he got bigger, he realized it wasn’t very hard to take what others needed as well. He also learned word of mouth could travel fast. 

 

It didn’t take long for him to become  _ very  _ important.

 

》》》

 

“So what’s it like to be a  _ real person _ Georgie?” Jim asked, sitting cross-legged on some heavy-duty looking stool. They’d turned a small portion the warehouse into a makeshift lab, and the other half still housed imports freighted in from the north. 

 

Jim was busy checking over his falsified identification papers under a magnifier, and a few of his men were putting illegal things into legal things so they could be more easily transferred. Police were so pesky, and had the silliest rules. 

 

“S’not all it’s cracked up to be,” the hefty man called back. “Taxes and all, you know.”

 

Jim snorted. 

 

“You know, these are the first papers I’ve had since I was five,” he mused aloud. “I ought to put on my real name, eh?”

 

“Up to you, boss.”

 

Hm, yes. That’s why any of them were here, after all. Because Jim paid them to be.

 

But it’s what people did, wasn’t it? Live, work, stab each other in the back, die.

 

Jim stared down at his new passport, and an insipid-looking version of himself stared back. Instead of the hungry eyes and thin lips curled with menace, here was a bland, sleight man who couldn't quite tame his hair that day. He ran his thumb over the letters “JIM”.

 

He was going to make all of their nightmares a reality.

 

》》》

 

Jim first got the idea when he was 15, and standing in the middle of the darkened Galleria Borghese. 

 

He’d gotten on the crew lying about his age (he didn’t look 19, but really, no one actually cared), and because of his reputation for being able to get into places no one else could. His favorite cover story was that he was kicked out of his family being so low ranked (in this case he was a 12%) and ran off to join the circus. It was outlandish enough that it made him laugh, and the supposed circus-wrought skills provided a cover for the inexplicable magic he was able to wield. 

 

Beyond the beautiful Bernini sculptures were the early paintings: colors so vivid they could cut you, chaotic scenes of people writhing in ecstasy as the supernormal overtook them. Why were they so beautiful in paintings, but so ugly in real life?

 

There were none in the gallery; it was an old wives tale that religious symbols kept out these pagan spirits, but from what Jim could tell, it was more or less true. The wooden men and vine-covered women wouldn’t come in here. 

 

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that no one else could see them. But as he put his hands on that Tiziano painting, it occurred to him that maybe he could  _ make them _ . The way an artist rendered his reality for others—Jim could do the same. He was certainly clever enough.

 

Jim enjoyed the years he spent studying abroad. 

 

》》》

 

At age 8, Jim learned he was clever. 

 

The feathered, bird-like faeries had led him to a table of men playing cards out on the street. They weren’t the dangerous, temperamental men who played in backs of bars at night. They were the stupid, eager-to-lose kind of players, who could only afford to buy in at a table that was really an upturned crate.

 

He watched for a good long time without any of them noticing. That happened sometimes; people just looked straight through Jim. 

 

Then he noticed one of them was cheating. 

 

“What will you do?” the bird-human asked, twisting its head all the way around. “Will you tell the others?”

 

Jim thought about it, but said nothing.

 

Then, after they’d played their fill and lost all the change in their wallets, when the men parted ways, Jim ran after the cheater, revealing himself.

 

“You’ve still got a pair of kings up your sleeve,” he said, falling into step with him, but at a safe distance. “Give me a share of your winnings, and I won’t tell the others.”

 

The man stared at Jim for a good long time, then he laughed.

 

“Is that so?” he asked, wiping his eyes.

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Jim answered angrily. 

 

“You’ve keen eyes. I should teach you to count cards. Say, you’re the perfect size to fit up the rafters,” he trailed off, looking Jim up and down. He nodded, seeming to have decided, then pulled out a couple of bills and tossed them at the boy. 

 

“Sebastian Moran,” the man said, holding out his hand for Jim to shake.

 

Jim hesitated. He’d seen faeries do this, and it was never good. Names had bargaining power, they told him. He’d seen men do this as well, and it wasn’t quite the same, but it was still servitude.

 

“Carl,” he said instead, shaking Sebastian Moran’s hand. 

 

》》》

 

At age 9, Jim loved learning.

 

Once he’d learned how to break into the backs of bars and restaurants, how to climb into attics to watch the games and then escape onto roofs, he started spending a lot more time indoors.

 

His favorite rooms were always the studies, where the shady ledgers kept in safes and the serious, intellectual tomes people kept for show in their personal libraries were equally interesting.

 

He learned who was skimming money off the top and exactly how much who was cheating who out of.

 

He learned about supernovas and black holes, and the theory of relativity. He learned about energy and mass and the equal and opposite consequences of everything. 

 

He learned that the more time he spent with people, the less time fae seemed to want to spend with him.

 

He learned that everyone had limits, and loyalty could be bought. He learned how a man could crack under pressure, when you prodded at the right points. He learned the lengths people would go to to keep their secrets, and their money. 

 

If he could learn all this, he thought, why couldn’t he learn about magic?

 

》》》

 

“Georgie,” Jim said a few days later. “How would you like to become a higher rank?”

 

The man’s eyes lit up. This is what most of the ex-cons were hanging around for. A chance to wield more magic, to get more power in the world. There was a physical gravitas that came with a higher rank—plus the ability to more easier throw someone across a room if need be. People thought it made you smarter, stronger, somehow  _ better, _ and Jim wondered if they would be disappointed to learn it wasn’t at all true.

 

Jim held out a box containing the shiny, silver syringe. It seemed to be made of mercury itself, so slick you expected it to pool into a puddle once you removed it from cold box. 

 

Darrell and Alfie had already had a go, but they were just tests. Darrell went from a 22% to a 24%, which wasn’t discernibly better. Alfie, got luckier, and rose from a 20% to a 38%, but there was so much better.

 

Darrell was the guinea pig—the first success Jim had had was transfering 2% off of an unwilling 22%, same as Darrell. And when it took, Jim siphoned off another 2% and locked it up in a box as a trophy. He drained the man dry and tried the last 18% on Alfie—also a success.

 

Then the experiments started getting a bit...unorthodox.

 

Jim had Bucktooth Bobby, a 24%, take all the magic of a 27%, and now he was a 51%. They’d been too scared to say no to Jim then, but when they saw that not only weren’t there any ill effects, Bobby could now throw a car across the warehouse without breaking a sweat, the fear and repulsion turned to covetous awe.

 

Jeffries underwent two transfusions the next day, and now he was a 63%. Ritchie was a 67%.

 

“Now,” Jim told Georgie. “Find yourself someone a little higher up. Make it look like a mugging.”

 

》》》

 

The first few died messy, shrieking deaths.

 

Jim had realized the key to his grand plan was being able to bridge the two types of magic.

 

“Live magic” referred to the brand of magic that ran through a person’s veins. This seemed specific to humans, but no one had a perfect explanation as to why.

 

Then there was atmospheric magic—it was what had poured out of the rift, but did not get absorbed by people inhabiting the planet. It was what, presumably, magic was before it attached itself to a person. 

 

Eventually, humans found a use for that too. Atmospheric magic, the leftover stuff, was captured in a variety of ways, and used to power clocks and carts and lamps, and eventually gadgets and smartphones and tele-booths. 

 

When it came to live magic, transfusions were taboo, painful, and illegal. When it came to transferring atmospheric magic from one gadget to another—well, that was just the norm.

 

What he had to do, then, was confuse the little transference device into thinking one type of magic was another. If all humans became receptive to this atmospheric magic, it would just open the floodgates. Everyone would then see the world as he did. In theory, anyway.

 

In practice, it was much harder than he anticipated, and it wasn’t going well. People corroded, things combusted. 

 

He decided he needed to start from the basics, learn to forge a transfusion device itself, and go from there. Stealing one would draw too much scrutiny, but getting a copy of the schematics seemed doable.

 

It took over two years to create one, then another four to create a working one-way version. But it worked. 

 

》》》

 

Once “Jim Mann” had been established, he went about setting up a string of legal businesses that would make his illegal businesses run smoother. 

 

One of these was a self-indulgent, cheeky cafe that he manned himself in the middle of the night. Steel and iron reinforced all over, and magic-themed icons and names everywhere inside. They couldn't get in, and it was perfect.

 

Though he should have known he'd jinx it, that he spoke too soon, because on the second night, a government spook walked in.

 

Mycroft Holmes was almost comically tall, a bit pale and haunted looking; he was an older brother, was practically born with a taste for the finer things in life, and, if you looked long enough, slightly  _ off.  _ Like an illusion, like residual imaging. Slightly left of center.

 

Here was a man who learned more secrets in a day than most people did in a lifetime, Jim thought. Perhaps he could keep just one more for him?

 

It was a silly idea, and so Jim wished very hard that the man would never come back. Then, of course, he was back the very next night.

 

And the next.

 

At first, Jim thought he would just have some fun with him. When the time came, he would burn like everyone else, so why did it matter?

 

But Jim soon learned he was just like him. Then he couldn't help but let the mask drop, hoping he'd be recognized.

 

He wanted to devour Mycroft whole. And wouldn’t that just be perfect? Together, they made a full 100%. One what, he didn’t know, but whatever it was, it would be so  _ exciting. _

 

And—it was like a light bulb went off in Jim’s head—

 

_ —exciting  _ enough for him to change  _ all of his plans _ . 

 

》》》

 

Jim learned his new friend had a brother on the first or second day they’d met. It was hard to keep track when they mostly met past midnight.

 

Oberon University, Jim mused. That’s where all the 40+ kids went. He wondered whether they would have accepted a 51%. It made him laugh how it made a world of difference a few little points could make. Just a little less magic, and he could be the Queen.

 

He decided to pay little Sherlock a visit, and pulled on some casual clothing to wander the campus in. He’d already done a sweep of the place a few days ago, before school began, to completely take over their surveillance system. Their security now was as good as his.

 

Their labs were decent, and could probably make a good decoy when the time came to expose evidence of some sort.

 

He didn’t have to follow for very long before realizing that Sherlock was possibly the worst-liked person on campus. Even people smiled at  _ Jim _ and Jim didn’t even go here. It was like they could just sense there was something  _ wrong _ with him, and wasn’t that just fascinating?

 

After another hour of loitering around, Jim was delighted to learn he was wrong, and that Sherlock had precisely one friend, a roommate studying pre-med. 

 

John Watson was such a strange and civil little man that Jim immediately dropped Sherlock in order to tail John around for a little bit. There was absolutely nothing special about him, but maybe it was the fact that he was  _ so _ average that he was in fact an exemplary type of average, Jim mused.

 

What would it be like to be John Watson? 

 

Was he so much, that Sherlock Holmes was contented with just a single friend? 

 

Jim followed him to class, chemistry, but not a fun one, and hung around for kicks. No one noticed.

 

Then as class let out, he followed him out too. The poor first year looked lost, following the smokers down the back steps, and even stared up at the cameras when they pointed.

 

“Oh don’t worry about those,” Jim found himself answering. “They stopped working weeks ago, over the summer term. They’re kinda just for show now.”

 

The kids bought it. It was half true, anyway.

 

It was lunch now, but Jim just wanted a nap. He’d been up for too many hours in a row. 

 

What would it have been like, Jim thought, if he hadn’t grown up alone? If, instead of whispering wraiths and vicious pixies for companionship, he had someone who wanted to look out for his well being?

 

He couldn’t stop the laugh from bubbling out of him.

 

He wanted to tell Mycroft.

 

Jim sighed. He thought about Mycroft all too often these hours. He’d even followed his brother for a day from afar, in hopes of better understanding the man.

 

He couldn’t understand why someone with that much power, that much  _ legitimate _ power, would let himself be so invisible.  _ He _ had nothing to be afraid of. He wasn’t even afraid of Jim, and Jim was positive he knew just how dangerous Jim was. 

 

He couldn’t understand, for the life of him, why that man was giving him the time of day.

 

Maybe he could return the favor somehow.

 

》》》

 

Bobby hadn’t shown any signs of Sight when he first took the transfusions, and Jim was awfully disappointed.

 

Jeffries, though, Jeffries wasn’t seeing errant fae, but seeing the particles of magic itself, woven through life.

 

Jeffries felt  _ amazing. _

 

At least, for the first day. 

 

He was ecstatic and over-zealous, and too hard to contain so Jim figured waiting 24 hours before he interviewed the man wouldn’t much matter. Except the next day, Jeffries was erratic, and so wound-up he was barely coherent.

 

Jim could barely  _ contain _ him. 

 

They threw him into a room that was little more than a carved out block of cement, where the man threw himself against the walls and tried to scratch runes into the surface with his bare hands. He tore himself raw, then healed himself up, then did it all over again. 

 

When Jim came to check on him five hours later, he found that Jeffries had blown his own head up.

 

He stood there, pop song blaring on his phone indicating an incoming call, staring at the charred remains. There was nothing human about it at all.

 

“Yes?” he finally answered.

 

“It’s Pol. Mead and Ritchie never showed up. I can’t reach them, it’s been going straight to voicemail,” came the voice of one of the men he had stationed at a hospice center. 

 

Mead and Ritchie had left hours ago on that delivery.

 

“I’ll call you back,” Jim said.

 

He later learned that Ritchie drove them straight through a wall, and the both of them, and the car and cargo and all, had merged into the brick wall the way pureed bits might stick on a strainer.

 

Then Bobby—poor, average Bobby—went and shot himself in the head. 

 

By the time Georgie came back the next morning, as a 45%, Jim’s fuse was very, very short. 

 

》》》

 

“I was just considering,” Georgie started, all reasonable-like, “that considering Ritchie and Jeffries both lost it, maybe going above 50% isn’t such a bright idea.”

 

“I mean,” Georgie continued, oblivious. “It isn’t right. Morally, I mean. It’s  _ wrong _ having that much magic in your blood. It ain’t  _ human _ no more.”

 

An invisible vice slammed into his neck and he was pushed back, choking as his feet sought purchase. He looked down to see Jim with a caricature of a frown on his face.

 

“Aw that’s what you thought, was it?” he said in his sing-song tone. “And that’s what I pay you for is it? To think? Because you’re such a  _ smart, clever _ boy.”

 

He sighed an exaggerated, long sigh and pulled out syringe, wagging it in front of Georgie’s quickly-purpling face. It was the same one that was in his own pocket a moment ago, and he might’ve been taken aback if he wasn’t running out of air.

 

“I guess if you don’t want my little gift, I’ll just have to take it ba~ck” Jim said, jabbing the syringe into Georgie’s neck. It was a brilliant invention, he had to admit. It made the whole thing seem so tangible. Magic that could be extracted and injected. He could revolutionize the medical industry, if he so wanted. 

 

Jim plucked the needle from his neck, tossed it back into a cold box, and released his invisible grip.

 

The world seemed to dim around Georgie, and Georgie couldn’t tell if it was from the lack of oxygen, or the lack of magic. Was this what being a Zero felt like? Or was he just dying?

 

“Now, I’d prefer to keep you like this for a little while longer, it’ll let me do another test, see, to determine whether Zeros are any better at retaining more than 50% magic than someone else. Would you like to try?” Jim asked kindly.

 

Georgie, gasping for air, managed to get enough in to express his thoughts.

 

“Fuck—you—you’re in _ sane _ —” he spit out.

 

Famous last words, before Jim threw him back so hard his skull smashed into the wall, killing him almost instantly. Cliche, even.

 

Not that it was a real set back. This could cause a scene.

 

And Jim was gearing up for a spectacle.

 

》》》

 

Mycroft was the only one who could  _ understand.  _

 

Jim found himself thinking of him more and more. Oh, if he was here, he wouldn’t have lost his temper and smashed the poor idiot’s head in, he thought, pacing the length of his personal, makeshift lab, before sinking down to the floor. No, if Mycroft had been by his side, he literally wouldn’t have needed to employ these idiots in the first place. Mycroft was all about neat, tidy solutions. Jim felt like recently he’d been going at everything with a sledgehammer. 

 

He wasn’t  _ insane. _

 

What he was—was—he was running out of time. The recent failures created a sense of panic among those who knew, and so of course Jim had to  _ take care _ of all that to keep things quiet. There was a time for chaos, and it had not come yet. 

 

This meant he needed more subjects to test on, too. No, maybe he just needed different subjects. Maybe a couple of 40+s to see if they handled it any better than the average person. Maybe a couple of Zeros. 

 

It would be busy work. 

 

》》》

 

Contrary to popular belief, Jim didn’t lie much.

 

In fact, there were times where he found it physically impossible to lie. His tongue would tie up, his mouth would go dry, and the force of a million Newtons would press down on him to prevent it.

 

It usually happened when the situation he was in was set up similarly to a Bargain. 

 

Jim got very good at evasive truths and getting people to ask the wrong questions.

 

It was almost unbearable, how sincere Mycroft wanted him to be.

 

Baffling.

 

Then when he took his hand and squeezed back, Mycroft gave him everything.

 

Jim didn’t expect that, but now it was binding, whether he knew it or not. 

 

And it shouldn’t have worked. 

 

He panicked, racking his brain for a way to undo it, and settled for giving back a piece of himself in turn. 

 

This changed all his plans  _ again. _

 

》》》

 

“So, generally speaking, people usually go  _ out _ for dates before they start declaring their undying and eternal devotion for each other, don’t they?” asked Jim, mock-casually, as if he didn’t have a guy strapped down to a chair mad-scientist style. 

 

“I’m asking for a friend,” he continued, looking imploringly at the bound and gagged man, as if they were having a real conversation. 

 

Jim held a hand up to cup his ear, not quite being able to discern the words from the terror-filled accusations coming at him from behind the rags filling the man’s mouth. 

 

“I’m sorry, you’re not being very clear,” Jim said with a sigh. Then he dropped his hand and stepped forward with the syringe. “I know,  _ I know _ it’s a complicated situation, but I just don’t think they should rush into anything here.”

 

“Or,” he stopped, thoughtful. 

 

“I didn’t this morning. But, sometimes you just have to grab life by the horns, don’t you?” he said. Then he jabbed the syringe into the man’s vein. 

 

He didn’t have much choice; no one in their right mind really wanted to become an inhuman, so he’d just have to make them himself. It had been hard finding a 40+ that wouldn’t draw scrutiny as soon as he went missing. And even with this man, there would be law enforcement sniffing around pretty soon.

 

It was time to clean up after his tracks.

 

》》》

 

Thursday was not a good day.

 

First, someone tried to kill him, which—novel experience, no one had even tried in years—but it was sloppy and done out of fear and Jim lost another two crew members for his trouble.

 

Then, instead of being able to spend the eerie hours of the night with Mycroft as he had been looking forward to all day, Mycroft started  _ prying. _

 

Granted, Jim had been in a cranky mood. And might’ve snapped at him. And sent him away. 

 

But it was his  _ right.  _ He didn’t owe  _ anyone _ anything, he thought, wrapping up the books he’d borrowed, certainly not some government spook with the world at his fingertips.

 

It didn’t mean he didn’t regret it, once it was gone. 

 

》》》

 

Mycroft submitted his plan to sweep up the grenaline trade, catch the killers, and detain the mastermind behind it all. It was only 6 in the evening when he got a pat on the back and a ‘good job’ and the rest of the tedious details would be sorted out by the field agent teams.

 

Despite it all, Mycroft wanted to shake him by the shoulders and ask him why he hadn’t tried harder not to get caught, and those thoughts left him to turn down the wrong street instead of heading to his apartment. 

 

Except when he arrived at the spot around the corner, the cafe was gone.

 

Not closed, gone.

 

Every trace of it had been removed. Like the LED sign had never been installed. Ever shred of decor inside torn out. 

 

It looked like it had been abandoned ages ago and no one had ever moved in.

 

And people were passing by without a second glance. Did no one really think it strange?

 

Mycroft walked toward it anyway, and noticed a man inside. He was taping up a ‘FOR RENT’ sign before opening the door and stepping outside.

 

“Excuse me,” Mycroft called out, hurrying the last few steps over onto the sidewalk. “How long has this property been on the market?”

 

“It’s been like that for ages,” side street, you know, not the best location for retail,” the man replied, putting on his hat.

 

“I see. And you, um, took on the listing recently?” Mycroft asked. 

 

“Came into it a few months ago, actually. A great aunt of mine I didn’t even know I had passed away, left it to me, just never bothered getting around to try to rent it out, you know?” he shrugged. “Good old Aunt Je—”

 

“Jemamine Frances,” Mycroft finished, wondering if this was all an elaborate trick. He remembered the name from the background report he read a week or two—now it felt like an eternity—ago. Jim Mann’s great aunt, deceased. 

 

The man seemed genuinely stunned, however. That surprise and skepticism now creeping into his expression seemed real. But expected.

 

“Yeah,” he said, short now. “How’d you know?”

 

Mycroft turned around and left quickly down the street. 

 

What was going on?

  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Jim. If that’s even your REAL name…


	6. 5. When things go south, they go fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't stop prying. Mycroft finally unlocks that backstory.

The disappearance of the cafe certainly threw a wrench in the Agency’s plans. More literally, Mycroft’s plans. They did a sweep of the property regardless, and predictably found not a thing that could help.

 

They sent a special intervention unit to chokepoints on the trade routes they had discovered, only to discover they had all been cleaned out as well.

 

Even the secondary list Mycroft compiled of storefronts that had no overt link to any illegal operations but were suspicious for various reasons had, when they checked, recently exchanged hands to new owners. That in itself was suspicious and proved Mycroft’s more outlandish theories accurate.

 

Now, for maybe the second time in Mycroft’s life, he was at a loss.

 

Lingering was the feeling that if he really needed, if he really  _ wanted _ , it would not be impossible to find Jim again. The question remained: what did he want to find him for?

 

Pushing any notions of the  _ romantic _ sort (he did  _ not _ hear the word in Jim’s voice) out of mind, Mycroft set two analysts to compiling a list of persons based on the parameters he gave. They turned up as grocers and truckers and even an attendant at a hospice center—and Mycroft knew at least one or two of them could still be brought in. Once questioned, they were sure to give them another lead.

 

》》》

 

The interrogation rooms were quite possibly Mycroft’s least favorite places to be in the Agency. Sure, useful information flowed forth from these rooms. But the tactics employed to elicit them were...distasteful.

 

Case-in-point: As the guard’s boot crushed down into the ex-con’s broken ribs, blood burbled out of his nose with a disgusting, squelching sound. But out also came the singular word, “ _ Moriarty, _ ” uttered in a choked-off tone. 

 

It was the most tangible lead they had.

 

》》》

 

It was raining murder cases, and Sherlock couldn’t solve a single one of them.

 

This time, Sherlock got word before the incident made it into the papers.

 

Two Zeros were found dead in a university lab that had supposedly been under construction. 

 

The news spread across campus like wildfire, and Sherlock rushed to the scene with John, arriving just as the detectives working the missing student’s case did.

 

The lab had been converted into something out of a science fiction novel, complete with dangerous, nonsensical looking devices and eerie lighting. The two bodies lay side by side, on top of parallel chemistry lab tables. 

 

Sherlock walked through the crime scene, taking everything in. It was all completely bizarre, and had to be some sort of a farce. 

 

One body was drained dry—not a drop of blood left—and the other seemed to be bloated. Symbols were burnt into the walls all around the room as if some sort of occult ritual had taken place. The ceiling bore marks that suggested it had been burnt by magic flames, and the sight made Sherlock feel sick. The medical instruments left behind had been altered and crafted into overly complicated devices that couldn’t have possibly held real purpose.

 

The whole thing was so over-the-top it had to have been a setup.

 

The papers were going to have a field day.

 

He felt dizzy.

 

Seeing the Zeros bled dry and experimented on… No, that didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t afraid of some madman killing Zeros. 

 

But there was just so much in the room, so many false clues, that he couldn’t  _ think. _

 

_ I have to get out of here _ , he thought, before bolting out of the room, forgetting his friend.

 

》》》

 

“Sherlock?” John called. He was distracted by the blood and horror decorating the room but when he looked back, Sherlock was gone.

 

He ran after his friend to no avail; it wasn’t until they were nearly at the dorm door that John caught up with Sherlock, and only because, as usual, Sherlock had forgotten his keys. 

 

He was nearly crouched low to the ground by the time John approached, carefully, with trepidation, because it appeared Sherlock was having a panic attack.

 

“Sherlock, it’s me, I’m just going to unlock the door now,” John said, trying to step around him. Sherlock budged to the side a bit. 

 

Once inside, Sherlock dragged himself to his chair, and buried his head in his hands.

 

“Was it...too much?” John asked.

 

Of course it was too much. But Sherlock knew John meant the visions, the residual memories that he was supposed to be able to sense. He was a laughingstock of a detective, psychic or not. He didn’t even thoroughly examine the bodies before he felt sick.

 

“John,” Sherlock said, still breathing heavily. “I have to tell you something.”

 

He heard John take a seat.

 

“I’m a fraud,” Sherlock said. 

 

Silence. 

 

It took several moments, what felt like eternity to Sherlock, but in reality was merely a minute or so, before he found the strength to lift his head.

 

“I don't have any magic. I'm not a psychic and I can't sense things. I can't do anything magical,” Sherlock listed off quickly. He gnawed at his lip for a quick moment. Then ripped the bandaid off. “I'm a Zero. I faked my way into the Uni.”

 

Please don't tell, he didn't say. But it went without saying. At least, Sherlock hoped. He thought, perhaps, he could trust John with this. He might be disappointed, Sherlock thought, but he wouldn't demand expulsion, or anything extreme or hasty. He searched John’s face for any signs he might be wrong.

 

“Alright,” John finally replied.

 

“Alright?” Sherlock echoed, barely more than a whisper.

 

“Yeah, I mean,” John leaned back in his seat. “That explains a lot, actually.”

 

He looked as if he was thinking it over.

 

“Um. Yeah. Alright then,” John nodded.

 

“ _ Alright then? _ ” Sherlock raised his voice, incredulous.

 

“Are you just gonna repeat everything I say the rest of the evening?” John stood up and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock before passing him to grab a glass of water. Sherlock turned his head to follow the movements, and was still so stunned that he took the mug of water John handed him when he returned.

 

“Drink it slowly. It'll give you something else to focus on, take your mind off the panic attack,” John said.

 

“I don’t get  _ panic attacks, _ ” Sherlock retorted by reflex. 

 

“That was practically a textbook panic attack,” John said with only a mildly disapproving look.

 

Sherlock chugged the water violently in retaliation, refusing to break eye contact. John just rolled his eyes.

 

“And that’s it? ‘Alright then’?” he asked after he finished off the mug, giving a small hiccup.

 

“It certainly explains the, er, quirks,” John said with a small half smile. Sherlock couldn’t help but mirror it. Then stopped breathing as he saw John frown.

 

“Though…”

 

“Though??” Sherlock asked, earning a wry look from John for the echoing again.

 

“How did you do the, the vision thing?” John asked curiously. “If they weren’t real visions, how did you know all those things?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Simple deductions. It’s just logic.”

 

John barked out a laugh. “Simple?”

 

“When you’ve gone your whole life observing people to play the part, it’s as simple as breathing,” Sherlock said, settling back into his chair a bit more easily now.

 

John just shook his head fondly. “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”

 

“Once you eliminate the impossible, what’s left must be the truth, no matter how improbable,” Sherlock quipped.

 

“Right,” John replied uncomprehendingly. Then he cleared his throat.

 

“So it must have been, even harder for you then, seeing the crime scene,” he said hesitantly.

 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, missing the meaning at first.

 

“Oh,” he finally said. “No that’s not it.”

 

“Sherlock, it’s fine to admit. It would be  _ expected _ to be upset seeing Zeros being target, as one yourself,” John said in disbelief.

 

“No, I’m,” Sherlock frowned, and thought about it. His family history wasn’t solely his to share. But this was John. 

 

“I wasn’t born void  of magic the way most Zeros are,” he started. Then Sherlock told John all about Eurus. How she burned down the house, how he watched the flames lick the ceiling and close in on him. He passed out in a wall of fire, and didn’t know if he would ever wake up again. That was how he lost his magic.

 

There were signs of a similar explosion in the university lab, and it resurfaced the trauma.

 

Sherlock told the story with a steady voice, but his knuckles were white and his hands were trembling. 

 

“So that’s it, that’s me, all a lie,” Sherlock said.

 

When he finished, John stood up and walked over, putting his arms around the taller man. Sherlock, still seated, buried his face in John’s jumper, and clung on for dear life.

 

“You’re not a fraud, Sherlock,” John said softly, as fingers dug into his back. “You’re brilliant.”

 

“A bit of an arse, sometimes, sure,” John had to add, and Sherlock snorted against his stomach. “But brilliant nonetheless. Amazing. People with loads more magic than you do couldn’t do half as well as brilliantly as you do, and you prove that every day.”

 

》》》

 

The term Moriarty turned up myths and rumors and little else. 

 

Going by the stories, Mycroft would have had to be skeptical of the picture of the man they painted. An ominous sort of mastermind, who was infallible when it came to planning the perfect crime, and could foresee so many possibilities he could pull together a contingency plan in a moment’s notice.

 

But knowing Jim, Mycroft had no trouble believing he truly was responsible for the long list of crimes the underground whispered about. 

 

Then Mycroft got a letter—it was waiting for him, tucked into a gash cut into his front door.

 

He opened it with great care and shielding, though something told him he doesn’t need to take the precaution. It was like a whisper in the back of his mind, reminding him he already knew what was coming. Who this was from.

 

A small photograph fell out, along with an old newspaper clipping, and then a sheet of paper ripped in half, on which a letter was scrawled.

 

Mycroft flipped the photograph over and came face to face with what he realized must have been Jim as a child. 

 

Something heavy settled in the pit of his stomach.

 

He set the photograph down carefully, and picked up the newspaper clippings. The death of a couple, shot in their own home, by the husband’s hand. The Moriartys. They were survived by a child, 5, who went missing.

 

Mycroft’s mouth went dry as he fumbled for the letter, photograph still in hand.

 

_ Hello darling, I see you’ve been searching for me.  _

 

_ All you had to do was  _ ask _. _

 

_ You won’t find a thing, I’m afraid, because, as you already know, I’m very good at disappearing.  _

 

_ But since it’s you, I don’t  _ really  _ mind.  _

 

_ Because you wouldn’t hurt me, would you? _

 

_ Jim _

 

After carefully tucking away the letter’s contents, Mycroft gave himself a moment to compose himself at his kitchen table. Then he gave an order to look into the family’s history, and got himself ready to take a trip.

 

It was true that Moriarty had made any record of him disappear. But that only meant Mycroft needed to look for the gaps.

 

At 4 in the morning, a call came with a list of people Moriarty would have had contact with as a child. And Mycroft busied himself with piecing together the criminal mastermind’s history so as to predict Moriarty’s next move.

 

》》》

 

This was the one and only time Mycroft was going to volunteer to do legwork.

 

Hopping around the island to interview the scattered old classmates and descendants would have been tedious for anyone, but even Mycroft who so desperately wanted to unravel the truth and who had an enormous source of magic to spare was getting to the point where he’d rather pull out his teeth. There was plenty of wait time as well, during which Mycroft busied himself balancing a particularly difficult chemical equation across several napkins.

 

But after a myriad of dead ends, Mycroft happened upon the home of one Cynthia Burns. 

 

Ms. Burns gave Mycroft a wary look at the door but let him in anyway. She poured tea while he sat with his long legs crammed under the folding table by the kitchenette, and his line of questioning revealed that Ms. Burns’s mother was something of an assistant-slash-everything at the first school Jim Moriarty.

 

“Um. It’s not like we really discussed her work or anything. And mind you I was a young child then as well,” Ms. Burns said haltingly, tapping her foot as if trying to jumpstart her memory and its verbalization. “But there was a doctor.”

 

She took a long drink from her mug, not looking at Mycroft.

 

“He gave checkups to all the kids, see,” Ms. Burns continued, brows furrowed. “And the day before he was found dead—dead in his office, burned to the ground—he’d been trying to reach the parents of this one child who was enrolled late.”

 

She glanced at Mycroft to see him listening intently, expression calm.

 

“He…” she hesitated. “My mum remembered him saying something about an inhuman.”

 

Ah.

 

That explained a whole lot. 

 

Mycroft expected to feel something... _ more _ about the revelation. Fear, maybe. Shock. Possibly anger, or disgust, or shame. Even finality. But instead, the interview seemed to only confirm what he already knew but didn’t admit. Jim Moriarty had more than 50% magic, and had somehow survived all these years on his own. He was tested late and his parents didn’t learn of it until the doctor did, and then Jim took care of the doctor, if not his parents as well. 

 

That explained the loneliness. It explained why he held himself as if he never knew when the world would next hurt him.

 

That explained the cryptic, Fae-like answers of lies disguised within half-truths, the gleam of madness he sometimes thought he saw lurking behind those dark eyes.

 

Before he could think of how to respond to Ms. Burns, his phone lit up with a call—from Sherlock. Mycroft frowned; his brother never called. Barring the end of the world, he wasn’t sure what could possibly prompt it. He answered immediately, and blanched as Sherlock immediately launched into an explanation he was planning.

 

This could go south horribly. 

 

“Sherlock, you have to stop immediately,” Mycroft cut in. 

 

》》》

 

“I’m here live at Oberon University, where sources say two people were killed, both Zeroes.”

 

Sherlock and John stared at the tiny television set in their dorm room. The murders had already made the evening news, a female reporter standing past the crime scene tape outside the university building.

 

“Police have yet to confirm details about the victims, or whether the murders occurred on campus.”

 

The reporter’s eyes widened slightly, as she got a message through her earpiece.

 

“And back to you Dale,” she said, signing off abruptly. 

 

The feed switched over to the anchor back at the television station. He looked into the camera, grim, and said only one line before the image changed again.

 

“The Prime Minister has just declared a state of emergency.”

 

Then the video changed to a haggard looking communications officer standing before flashing lights and surrounded by microphones and recorders. The news channel marquee at the bottom of the screen read LIVE: PRIME MINISTER DECLARES STATE OF EMERGENCY. 

 

“A curfew will be effective immediately,” the spokesperson was saying. “Military aid is being deployed across London as we speak.”

 

John and Sherlock turned to look at each other. This had just gotten very serious.

 

“Details of the investigation cannot yet be disclosed, but we have reason to believe recent events are tied to domestic terrorism,” the spokesperson said.

 

Meanwhile, armed guards were indeed marching out across the city, taking up post at the university, at government buildings, the palace, lining the streets downtown. 

 

And, unbeknownst to those who ordered the move, about a fifth of those guards had a second objective.

 

Each one of these guards had, strapped to their bodies, two additional items. One was a unknown panel that they were instructed to set up at a very specific location on their route. The other was effectively a bio-bomb, that would inject fast-acting poison into their systems if they did not complete their objectives. 

 

London is one of the most-watched cities in the world, with surveillance like no other. Yet, by the time these guards were meant to simultaneously put the panels in position, despite the fact that it will be immediately detected, nothing would have been able to stop what was coming. 

 

And somewhere in the Tower of London, Jim was having a ball.

 

》》》

 

Sherlock steepled his fingers and set them before his face, deep in thought.

 

“I have to draw out the murder,” he finally declared.

 

John had since learned to suspend disbelief even at Sherlocks most outrageous statements, so he just waited patiently.

 

“And how are you going to do that?” he asked, genuinely curious despite his worry. 

 

Sherlock swept up off the chair and pulled his coat back on. 

 

“I've got to get him while he's still targeting Zeroes. I'll set a trap. We need to find that reporter on campus and give her the scoop on a student Zero posing as a 47%. We already know he’s not afraid to be audacious. Likely not a single clue in that lab scene would have provided a real lead. But another Zero hiding on campus, exposed? That should draw him out,” Sherlock explained. Then he turned around at the door and frowned. “Hurry up, John.”

 

“Are you  _ insane _ ?” 

 

Sherlock fidgeted a little, unsure why John was suddenly so angry when he wasn’t really before.

 

“No, now is really the best time to go. We have to hurry before the guards corral all the reporters and push the press off campus. Or if the killer moves on to some other form of experimenting,” Sherlock explained impatiently.

 

“And you’re, what, you’re just going to serve yourself up on a platter to some  _ sadistic killer _ who happens to be out  _ especially _ targeting Zeroes? By announcing to the whole world you’re one?” John retorted.

 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said, miffed. “Do try to keep up.”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“What?”

 

“You are absolutely not endangering yourself like this just to egg this serial killer on!” 

 

“And then what?” John asked. “What happens once you broadcast the fact that you’re a Zero, painting a big target on your back? How do we catch the guy?”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips and stared back. It wasn’t John could  _ actually _ stop him if he was dead set on going out. But. Perhaps he would be unhappy with him forever. Or lock him out and make Sherlock really have to move to the library, he thought. 

 

“Alright, what if I don’t do it alone?” Sherlock asked, pulling out his phone. “You remember my brother. He does a great deal of work that requires a great deal of security. He could help with the surveillance. Make sure we don’t miss any sign of the killer approaching.”

 

John frowned for a very, very long time, and Sherlock was getting nervous.

 

Then he looked away, and rubbed his nose.

 

“Yeah, alright.”

 

Sherlock flung the door open to mask his sigh of relief. “Good, now, let’s hurry. I’ll call Mycroft on the way.”

 

》》》

 

Mycroft stared at his phone, aghast, as Sherlock had just hung up on him. Prepare the papers confirming that he is a Zero, he said. He’s going to go on national television to make a spectacle of himself, he said. 

 

His baby brother was going to reveal his secret to the world in hopes of luring out one of the most dangerous men Mycroft knew of, and he had no idea what he was getting himself into.

 

He stood and abruptly bid Ms. Burns farewell, then left the house and checked his teleportation device. He had just enough to get back to London in one go, but it would be exhausting.

 

Teleportation without the use of official booths was illegal for good reason. The mode of transportation otherwise required perfect recall of the intended destination, and it was all too easy to accidentally land in a spot someone or something else was already occupying, resulting in a fatal mess of merged particles.

 

Of course, this led people to choose specific and hidden locations to use. But imagine being the first agent whose getaway route was discovered by the very enemies he was sent to spy on, and upon landing on his rooftop mid-trip stop, was impaled with a thick iron from head to foot. Despite the rest of Roger Lang’s long list of accomplishments, this became his legacy. 

 

The device Mycroft held was considered proprietary technology of the Agency’s, and still required perfect recall on the agent’s part, but served as half recon and half homing device. A gust of wind would hit the intended landing spot first, and if clear, the agent would be pulled to the spot with precision. All of this needed to happen in the span of milliseconds for it to be really effective, meaning it was near useless for anyone with an insubstantial amount of magic.

 

Three minutes later, Mycroft landed on a sidewalk in Central London, just outside Sherlock’s university.  This was a completely unsanctioned use of the device. But. Desperate times.

 

Oddly, instead of students bustling in every direction, the paths were clear. Mycroft’s head was spinning and he counted to ten, to let him reorient himself.

 

That was when he saw the guards, and realized they must have declared a state of emergency. He quickly glanced at his phone, to scan all the developments he had missed while trudging through the countryside, and all the blood drained from his face.

 

He texted Sherlock a cease-and-desist, and ran toward the chemistry building.

 

Mycroft was halfway there when a television screen hanging inside the cafeteria caught his eye from outside the building window. Sherlock was already giving an interview to a local reporter, live, and he had already said too much.

 

Sherlock Holmes was declaring, live on national television, that he had defrauded the most prestigious university in the country; one known for its magic studies. He sounded like a rights activist, emphatically stating that Zeroes were no less capable than anyone else, and that this curfew was an insult.

 

It was a circus, it was a farce. Mycroft wondered whether the reporter was in on his brother’s little plan.

 

Then Mycroft mustered up what strength he had left and teleported himself to the site of the interview.

Still, it was too late.

 

As he landed and steadied himself on his feet, he looked up to see the reporter and cameraman packing up and walking away, ushered by the military guards. 

 

“Sherlock!” he called out.

 

His brother turned, and looked surprised to see him. Sherlock’s friend John Watson was there too, hanging just out of the camera frame, looking very concerned. 

 

Why didn’t he  _ stop _ him?

 

“It’s done now, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as Mycroft approached out of breath. John Watson hovered, then took a step back to give them space. 

 

“I told you to hold off!” Mycroft retorted.

 

“There’s no  _ time, _ ” Sherlock insisted. “This is a sure-fire way to draw him out.”

 

“If it was as simple as that we could have had an agent-”

 

“No, it has to be real,” Sherlock said firmly. 

 

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Mycroft said, and he would have groaned, if he was the type of person to do so. Instead he just looked pained, and then grabbed on to Sherlock’s arm for support—whose, he didn’t know. “But I supposed what’s done is done now.”

 

He set his mouth into a thin line, and thought about security plans and whether this would really draw Moriarty out.

 

Sherlock gave John a quick glance, seeing John wave at him and gesture he’d gotten a phone call but would be just a few steps away. Then Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, who was clearly already thinking up plans B, C, and all the way through X.

 

“Let’s go,” Mycroft said. “We need to discuss what to do once the killer makes his move.”

 

Sherlock knew he hadn’t won this just yet, but nodded agreeably anyway.

 

“John? Let’s-” he stopped.

 

Sherlock turned around, looking, but John was nowhere in sight.

 

Then his phone went off, and a second later Mycroft’s did as well.

 

Sherlock hurried to open what he saw was a text from an unknown number, but Mycroft was slow about it, as if he already knew what the message would be and was resigned.

 

Both texts came from a hidden number. 

 

**To Sherlock:** **  
** If you want John Watson, come to the chapel at the Tower of London. And come alone.

 

**To Mycroft:**

My, my, my. Your secrets just never seem to end, do they? A brother who’s a fraud, and a sister who’s inhuman. What else haven’t you told me?

 

》》》

 

Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to be in a pretty heated discussion, completely understandably, so John thought he would give the two of them some room.

 

Then his phone rang, and he saw it was Alice calling. Maybe checking on him because of the curfew. It was supposed to be a quick call, and he motioned to Sherlock as much.

 

“Hullo, Alice?”

 

“Um, John,” she sounded shaky. “I think—I think the faery is back. He— it— I think it wants— Could you come please? It’ll be easier to explain in person.”

 

“Um. Right. Of course. I’ll bring Sherlock too, though now might not be the best time,” John trailed off. He didn’t want either of them put in danger.

 

“No!” Alice sounded hysterical. “Please. You have to come alone.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Just. Keep walking straight.” She was in tears.

 

John took a cautious few steps forward, eyes scanning his surroundings.

 

“Alice, are you in a safe place?” he asked. He heard a muffled sob on the other end, and was about to turn around to let Sherlock and Mycroft know, when he was spun around to come face to face with a person who had seemingly come out of nowhere. 

 

John blinked. It was the student whose picture he couldn’t locate in the yearbook, except…

 

“Hello, John Watson,” the man said with a smile. Then he wrapped his arms around him, and they both disappeared.

  
  
  



	7. 6. At the end of the tunnel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody lies some more.

John’s stomach protested vehemently and he tried to keep himself together and stop from hurling as he landed on his feet and the room swam and spun around him.

 

After several deep breaths, he righted himself to see that student whose picture he couldn’t find.

 

“You’re that barista,” John said, still a bit dizzy. What was his name?

 

“Yep,” he replied, popping the ‘p.’

 

“Jim something or the other,” John continued.

 

“Something or the other, that’s right,” Jim replied easily.

 

They were in the St. John’s Chapel of the Tower of London, and it was lit in a way that only disoriented John more. Then his phone battery blinked out, and he suddenly remembered he had been in the middle of a call.

 

“Alice—” John started, and then as if on cue, a spotlight lit up in the corner, illuminating a tall, cylindrical glass tank. It was empty, save for Alice, and now Jim pressed a hand on the bio-key pad and unlocked it.

 

She stumbled out, gasping for breath.

 

“Alice!” John ran over to check on her.

 

“Well, you held up your end of the deal, and I’ll hold up mine,” Jim said in lilting voice, with complete apparent disregard for either of them. John helped Alice steady herself and get to her feet, shaking his head at her apologies.

 

“John Watson stays, and you get to go free,” Jim said, looking both of them over head to toe.

 

John balled his hands into fists, but then found he couldn’t move a single inch of his body.

 

“I wouldn’t try anything, if I were you,” Jim said, very quietly, but seriously. “Now, into the tank, up you go, Johnny.”

 

Alice was pulled away from John’s grasp, and he found himself being shoved by an invisible force into the tank. The door swung shut on him, and the words from outside became slightly distorted.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” Alice was babbling through her tears. “He promised he wouldn’t hurt you, he promised if you came willingly he wouldn’t—”

 

And then she blinked out of existence right before John’s eyes.

 

“Tsk, tsk, putting words in my mouth,” Jim said. “I never said it like _that._ ”

 

At John’s enraged expression, Jim rolled his eyes.

 

“Don’t _worry_ , she’s at _home._ Now, all you need to do is stand there and look pretty while we wait for young Sherlock,” Jim said.

 

John blinked, confused. “Sherlock? What’s he got to do with anything?”

 

Jim groaned, theatric about it. “Oh I forget how _slow_ all you people _are!_ ”

 

He seemed to be getting angrier with each word, but John was undeterred. His eyes narrowed as he realized Jim must be the one they were all after.

 

“You’re the serial killer, then,” John said.

 

Jim flashed him a mocking grin and thumbs up, before shaking his head and pulling out his phone, tapping away.

 

“Well with young Sherlock making _such_ a spectacle to get my attention, I couldn’t very well leave him out to dry, could I?” Jim replied languidly. “Challenge answered; it’s his move now.”

 

He dialed a number and brought the phone up to his ear, walking away from John as he talked.

 

“The guards all in place? Good. Have the moles move in on the water supply points. We’ll have at least all of London poisoned in a day, and all of England in two.”

 

It was the last thing John heard before Jim walked out of his line of sight. He looked down at his phone—battery dead—but he had to find a way to get the word out. He tried pushing on the glass walls around him with his magic, and found that all it did was give him a headache.

 

Poison? What did contaminating the water supply have to do with anything?

 

Sherlock was right: They were dealing with a madman.

 

》》》

 

Sherlock was numb, sitting at his brother’s dining table. They had to go back to his flat, because Sherlock wouldn’t have been allowed entry into Mycroft’s office.

 

His first instinct had been to run, to chase after John, and Mycroft’s grip on his arm reminded him that he was alone in this world of magic. Of course someone abducting John would have been long gone now. Only a Zero like him would think to _run._

 

“We don’t have time,” Sherlock protested weakly. Though it wasn’t as if he had any telling leads anyway. He didn’t have an instinct for tracing magical signatures like some of Mycroft’s agents had. He had to wait for help before going into the Tower of London. But then what?

 

He had one opportunity to draw the killer out, and he took it without consideration for how much of a threat they could be. And now he had endangered his friend.

 

Mycroft sat down across Sherlock and gave an impatient sigh.

 

“Think, Sherlock,” he said. “Stop panicking and just _think._ ”

 

“What do _you think_ I’m doing?” Sherlock snapped.

 

“You’re running yourself ragged with panic is what you’re doing. Stop it. Remember what happened, what the scene was like, and use logic,” Mycroft said sternly.

 

“Well John was there one minute, and not the next. I was talking to you, I—” Sherlock came to a stop and dropped his voice to a whisper. “How stupid. He took John and just disappeared. The killer’s not a Zero at all.”

 

His phone pinged with another text.

 

 **To Sherlock:** **  
** One hour.

 

“Yes, but he certainly knows _you’re_ one now,” Mycroft said wryly. “And he’ll have planned for that.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “The guards, the security. The state of emergency—it’s all part of the plan.”

 

Mycroft waited patiently.

 

“He never needed to experiment with Zeros at all, so the lab was just a ruse. I just didn’t know what _for_ because I was so distracted. He’s using the military to transport something,” Sherlock deduced.

 

“We have to find out what it is,” Sherlock said to Mycroft urgently.

 

“No, we have to be able to stop whatever it is that’s already going out,” Mycroft said quietly.

 

Sherlock bit his lip. “I need to get inside the Tower of London.”

 

“I know it’s just another distraction, that while I’m in there the killer will be long gone, will use the opportunity to hit the next target in his grand plan, but I need to go,” Sherlock said.

 

“Not as a Zero you won’t,” Mycroft said with a heavy sigh. He raised a hand before his brother could continue with a protest, and the doorbell rang.

 

Mycroft went to answer it, and when he returned he had a heavy briefcase in hand.

 

“As of several minutes ago, we’ve traded out the military guards posted around the tourist site with our own. When you go into the Tower, it won’t be surrounded by potential enemy agents,” Mycroft said, setting the case on the dining table.

 

“Now, I have three things to tell you, and I need you to listen very carefully.”

 

“One, you will recognize the man who has John Watson, if he is still there by the time you arrive, and he likely will be. You’ll know him as Jim from the cafe just around the corner.”

 

“Two, the barista identity was an obvious cover. The man is a dangerous criminal, and,” Mycroft took a deep breath. “He’s an inhuman. As your sister was, though not nearly as...volatile. Likely a much lesser percentage over 50.”

 

“And three, he will expect you to have no magic, so you will need to go in there with some,” Mycroft said. Ignoring the confusion on Sherlock’s face, he unlocked the briefcase and flipped it open. A sterilized intravenous transfusion device lay inside. “As much as you can manage.”

 

“You’ll need to take all of mine.”

 

》》》

 

Mycroft and Sherlock each had a forearm on the dining table, a thin tube inserted into the vein, linked up to a small but complicated contraption in the middle.

 

And nothing happened.

 

Sherlock had been quick to set up the device per Mycroft’s instructions, but as the two sat beside each other, hands linked, the magic was supposed to flow from Mycroft to Sherlock. They’d both braced themselves for the pain that was supposed to accompany it, but nothing happened.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said gently after a minute or two. “Sherlock you have to actually want to accept it.”

 

His brother leveled a glare at him. “Are you sure it’s not just broken? Or that that assistant of yours brought you a fake?”

 

“You have to go willingly,” Mycroft continued. He could see Sherlock struggle within himself. “It won’t be permanent, but in this moment…”

 

Mycroft sighed. “Think of what you’re doing this for,” he said, half to remind himself as well. “Think of your friend.”

 

Then it started working, and knocked the breath out of him.

 

》》》

 

It felt like a rebirth, of sorts.

 

The lights around them seemed to flare, then dim, and the floor became the ceiling and then the floor again.

 

Sherlock wondered if this was what genetics, or, if you were more superstitious, fate, had in store for him all those years ago. He suppressed a shudder.

 

It felt...off. Just slightly off kilter.

 

But he didn’t have time to acclimate himself to this new sensation, and neither was it necessary. It was a means to an end, he only needed to wield the magic as long as it took to ensure John was safe, and he needed to learn how to do that quickly.

 

Mycroft, looking just as pale as Sherlock expected he did, set immediately to schooling Sherlock on a few simple but necessary techniques to 1) protect Sherlock physically and magically, 2) create enough of a diversion to make it look like he knew what he was doing, and thus make Moriarty question whether Sherlock had been posing as a Zero this whole time, and 3) most importantly, to get out.

 

“Shielding, in principle, is simply willing your magic to manifest in the physical plane,” Mycroft explained. “For many, it is the first step to learning how to use physical magic.”

 

“But all I need you to do is will a solid wall of it to surround you,” Mycroft continued. “You have more than enough magic to work with. Just solidify it, Sherlock.”

 

It was a clumsy start.

 

“I have 15 minutes to learn what most people have 15 years to do!” Sherlock said with just an edge of hysteria in his tone, after fumbling through Mycroft’s instructions one too many times.

 

“The _only_ thing you need to learn is to master shielding. If nothing else, this will get you in far enough for me to send help,” Mycroft said. “You’re a quick study, come along now.”

 

Wielding magic, for Sherlock, was like trying to wield two slippery eels while everyone else had proper nunchucks. Or at least, that’s what it felt like right off the bat. It felt like he was grasping for something that would at once become just out of reach.

 

“Sherlock, relax,” his brother said. “You’ve so much magic now that just the slightest impression that you want to do something should be enough to direct it. Stop imagining that it is so difficult, and it will cease to be.”

 

And it turned out he was right. He always was, Sherlock thought sourly, but now wasn’t the time to begrudge it.

 

“That’s how magic works,” Mycroft added quietly. “The more you have, the more you become it.”

 

 _This should be easy_ , Sherlock reminded himself.

 

And then, suddenly, it was.

 

》》》

 

One agent stood in front of Sherlock and another was behind him, strapping him into a tac-vest.

 

“This is bullet-proof and projectile resistant, and will withstand two thousand kilo-frazians of magic,” one said, as another switched out his wrist watch with another, both rattling off instructions and details to him as if read from a manual.

 

“This is both teleportation and communications enabled,” the agent with the watch said, and Sherlock looked to Mycroft with pinched eyebrows, communicating he wanted it guaranteed he’d get it back.

 

A firearm was shoved in his hand, and he took it.

 

“And this gun, this is keyed only to your magical signature.” Mycroft’s, Sherlock thought absent-mindedly. Did they even care whether he knew how to use one? He did, but it was beside the point. “Only you will be able to fire it, should an assailant get his hands on it.”

 

“But it is designed to look like a gun that doesn’t need any magic to be fired at all,” his brother adds. “He thinks you’re a Zero, after all.”

 

His belt was switched out, as were a few buttons. Cameras, magical links, neurotransmitters, et cetera. Magic and technology et all. Sherlock didn’t know whether any of it would come into play, but he took in every detail to as to use it to his advantage if the opportunity arose anyway.

 

“Alright Sherlock?” Mycroft repeated. “Stick to the plan.”

 

Sherlock nodded mutely.

 

But, of course, nothing went according to plan.

 

》》》

 

“Get as large of a team of high magic wielders on the roofs,” Mycroft relayed back to headquarters. “And get ready to move something large, we’re talking a good several hundred meters squared, but fragile.”

 

》》》

 

Sherlock arrived on scene, ferried in by helicopter, and seeming very much like a Zero. He fumbled through the heavy duty locks and made his way into the chapel without magic. He knew Moriarty was watching, and knew that Moriarty knew he was being watched too.

 

The military guard around that corner of the Tower of London had all been switched out, and surely Moriarty had to know he was trapped, and had to have some other exit route planned, Sherlock thought. His brother would have magic dampeners set up to go off as necessary, and Sherlock was curious to see how this madman expected to get out of it.

 

But thoughts of outwitting his villain came to an abrupt halt as he set foot inside the heart of the chapel and laid eyes on the spotlit tank in the corner. Reinforced class, bio-magic keypad lock, and slowly filling with some sort of eerie blue liquid that couldn’t be good.

 

John was inside.

 

“You made it!” came a jubilant voice from the left, and Jim Moriarty stepped out from the shadows. He looked much the same as he did when they met in the cafe, and if there was any difference it was only that he looked slightly more bitter.

 

Sherlock immediately leveled his firearm at Moriarty.

 

“Let him go,” he said, gesturing toward John in the tank with a nod of his head.

 

“Ooh,” Moriarty made a face, a theatrical wince. “Hasty, hasty aren’t we?”

 

Then he spun toward the pulpit and clicked on a big, magicked screen, showing a live cast of the national news.

 

“Don’t you want to see the terms, first?” Moriarty cooed.

 

On screen, the news anchor read from her script with the expression of someone experiencing real terror, but was responsibly staving it off to do her duty.

 

“There is something coming up over the horizon,” she said, staring straight into the camera. Sherlock and John watch helplessly, captivated by the aerial footage displayed in the background. In a moment, the broadcast cut to solely the footage, and everyone could see that indeed, something was rising from all corners of London. It was as if some beast was taking shape, blinking into existence from nothing to loom high over the city.

 

Then the screen was replaced with static, and when the image flickered back into focus, Sherlock could see that it was a live cast of himself.

 

He shot a look at Moriarty, who was now holding a camera. He waved his fingers at Sherlock.

 

“Say ‘hiii’,” he coached. The camera didn’t seem to pick up his voice. All the people of England could see right now was Sherlock, in a dark chapel, holding a gun.

 

“Now,” Moriarty continued. “If you want Johnny boy here to leave alive, all you’ve got to do is read this teensy-weensy little script for me.”

 

Words materialized before Sherlock, like a teleprompter.

 

“Or I could just shoot you right here,” he retorted.

 

“Oh, ho, but then how would you get Johnny out, without any magic?” Moriarty sighed.

 

“Sherlock, just take the shot!” John yelled from inside the tank, sounding awfully muffled, sounding awfully far away. “Don’t let him get away!”

 

Moriarty rolled his eyes. Then snapped his fingers. John fell forward with a scream of pain, and Sherlock spun in his direction to see something electric fizzing atop the blue liquid.

 

“Hurry up, I’m near the end of my patience,” Moriarty said, voice low and menacing, a complete 180 from his tone just a few seconds ago. “ _Read_ and he lives. Refuse and, well, see the consequences for yourself.”

 

“Citizens of London,” Sherlock read in a shaky voice. “I’m afraid I’ve done something naughty.”

 

Sherlock wracked his brain for a plan as he continued to relay the script word for word. He could shoot him, and then break John out. He could do it. He had the magic. He could do it.

 

“I’ve gotten into the water supply, you see, and now you’ve all far too much magic running through your veins,” Sherlock read. The script caught his attention, as the words replaced themselves in the air before him.

 

“You’ve all by now heard of the murders around town, of the Zeroes being target by that serial killer. Well, I am that serial killer,” Sherlock continued in monotone. “And now I’m going to tell you exactly what it was all for.”

 

He’s lying, Sherlock thought. The script would reveal what Moriarty was up to next, but what he was saying, it was a lie.

 

“I’ve figured out how to steal magic, you see. Not just from people, though I can do that as well, but from the world itself. Atmospheric magic, as I have discovered, is not that different from live magic, oh no, not once you’ve done with it what I have,” Sherlock continued.

 

“And now I’ve put the solution into the water. I have for days. Weeks. And by now you all must be seeing what I’m seeing,” he said. “The Echidna, mother of monsters, has arrived.”

 

“I called her, you know, and she answered. Take a look above you, just take a look up into the sky,” Sherlock said, confused now. “The world of magical folk has never really left us, they were just glamoured and hidden away from human sight. But no longer, not when every one of you, every one of _us_ has more than 50 percent magic on our veins.”

 

But that was impossible, Sherlock thought. There was no way he could have found a way to make it happen. Think, think, he told himself, trying to remember each and every detail he could. The military, the experiments. They were all diversions.

 

“He’s lying,” Sherlock said on national television, before turning his stare to Moriarty, instead of the camera. “You’re lying.”

 

In one quick breath, Sherlock knew he had to get the message out before Moriarty brought down whatever terrors he had planned.

 

“The villain’s name is Jim Moriarty, and he has created a ruse—”

 

The feed cut out, and Moriarty dropped the camera, a big frown on his face. He stepped on the little device, crushing it under his foot.

 

“Couldn’t stay on script, could you?” he asked, shaking his head. “Sherlock, Sherlock, if you’ve got to ad lib, at least make it original? He’s lying? So cliche!”

 

And then came the gust of magic, hitting Sherlock back so hard he would have hit his head against a bench and sustained a nasty gash. He shielded in time, but not as neatly as he should have.

 

And Moriarty’s eyes went wide.

 

“He really did it,” he mused, quiet, and then hovered for a moment as if he was about to charge and attack Sherlock once again. Sherlock quickly raised shields around him entirely.

 

Moriarty narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock climbed to his feet, gun out, ready to shoot.

 

But Moriarty threw a hand out toward the tank, filling it nearly immediately with the blue fluid.

 

“You can save him, or you can go after me,” he hissed.

 

Then he ran.

 

》》》

 

Sherlock had magic. Of course he did, Jim thought, blinking himself out of time and space and reappearing in the catacombs the next moment.

 

Sherlock would need his magic to free his friend, but once they were out, if he didn’t get far enough, he’d be out of use of magic as well, and then he’d be stuck.

 

He tripped. There were already neutralizers placed alongside the entirety of the Tower, aside from the chapel where Sherlock would need to teleport out. Of course. He couldn’t use magic here anymore.

 

He only had a few minutes, Jim knew, and then it would be over.

 

“It’s already over, Jim,” came a voice from the end of the tunnel.

 

》》》

 

Sherlock ran to the tank without a second thought, dropping the gun in favor of getting his hands on the bio-keypad.

 

He breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t keyed to a specific person’s magic. He pressed his hand on the pad and watched it count down, scanning his magic. It prickled against his palm like static, and it was the longest three seconds of his life.

 

He could have laughed, if John’s life wasn’t on the line that very moment. It was keyed to open for no one with less than 47% magic, perhaps a jibe at his false identity. Perhaps Moriarty didn’t expect Mycroft’s move, Sherlock absently thought.

 

The tank clicked and Sherlock pulled at the door as hard as he could. Fluid flooded out and John collapsed onto the floor of the chapel, coughing up water.

 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked urgently.

 

John nodded, and coughed some more. Sherlock didn’t wait for a verbal answer. He just gathered him into his arms, and prepared to teleport them out to the designated spot.  

 

Before he could, the chapel shook as if hit by an earthquake, and the two of them both looked up to see debris falling from the ceiling, the impact was so great. A half second later, they heard the explosion come from deep underground.

 

At least one thing had gone according to plan after all, then.

 

Instead of aiming to his brother’s flat as they told the agents, he grabbed John and made for the steps of City Hall.

 

》》》

 

Mycroft stood not two meter away from Jim, blocking his exit.

 

“The entirety of the tower is already dead-zoned and rigged,” he said quietly, calmly, as if he wasn’t in the line of fire himself as well. “You’re not getting away alone.”

 

Jim’s eyes narrowed in the dark.

 

“No one is taking me in alive,” he replied, and at Mycroft’s movement, his eyes drift a bit lower. And then widen in understanding. “No one is stopping my plan, in any case.”

 

Mycroft gave him a small smile at that.

 

“Oh come now, give me a little credit at least,” Mycroft said. “I did figure it out, even if it took a little while. The phenomenon in the sky is not a result of your having poisoned the water, but you were counting on us, that is, the military, to shoot it down, were you not?”

 

“Because the grenaline solution you’ve come up with does work, only it’s not a solution at all because it doesn’t work through water, does it?” Mycroft continued. “It’s more like...an airborne virus.”

 

Jim gave him a sarcastic smile at that.

 

“Poetic isn’t it?” he retorted, casual as anything. “By shooting it down, the very body meant to protect the people would have just positively _doomed_ it.”

 

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replied. “But it’s all out of the question now.”

 

“There is no path out from here, forward or backwards,” Mycroft said.

 

Underneath Mycroft’s jacket is a complicated criss-crossing of wires, as he just showed Jim. If his heartbeat stops, the bombs go off. They all go down, and the plan’s a bust.

 

Jim doesn’t care.

 

He lunged at him, because if he was going down, he was going down swinging.

 

》》》

 

Press and politicians are already in place on the steps when Sherlock arrived, John in tow. The space behind the podium clustered with microphones as been blocked off, to ensure their entry.

 

Sherlock and John took just a moment to steady themselves, and then Sherlock stepped up to the microphones, addressing the crowd.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am here relaying a statement, on the behalf of the British government,” he said loudly. “The crisis is over.”

 

“At this time, we cannot take questions,” he said, “but there are some certain facts we can relay.”

 

High above the city, the last rays of daylight were returning. People gasped and pointed as the Echidna rose high above, higher and higher, fading from sight.

 

“The madman in question, the serial killer behind the murders never got into the water system at all. Should any of you consult a physician, you will see there is no change in your magic,” Sherlock said. “The perpetrator was an inhuman, of a yet undetermined blood percentage.”

 

Gasps, questions, and exclamations arose from the crowd.

 

“The perpetrator would not stand down and was shot in a hostage rescue situation just moments ago,” Sherlock read dutifully. There was a reason to stay on script this time around. “He went by the name Jim Mann, and he is now deceased.”

 

Newspapers confirmed the facts the next morning, and John was satisfied to see the headline: PSYCHIC DETECTIVE TAKES DOWN MAD INHUMAN.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh don’t worry we’re almost there  
> Next chapter is short, but should answer all questions left unanswered


	8. 7. Little lies and little differences

The lights were too much for Mycroft, who was sitting bandaged and sore in a conference room with the heads of the Agency surrounding one half of the table, him alone on the other. 

 

He was called in for a debriefing, but it looked much more like an interrogation.

 

“Rather than be taken in alive, the inhuman Jim Moriarty chose to take his own life,” Mycroft repeated. 

 

“He made to attack, until he saw the wires rigged to set off the bombs put in place alongside the tower, to go off the moment my heart stopped. Then he changed tack, and, with a device he must have designed himself, set off a contained explosion so potent we have no body to examine.”

 

“And what did this...explosion look like?” one of his superiors asked. 

 

“It was as if he dissolved into magic,” Mycroft said, sounding hollow, remembering his sister doing the same. “The type of blue, turbulent clouds that often follow a child under 5—it consumed and shredded his  very being.”

 

“What is left of the device is being examined by the lab techs now, of course,” Mycroft said. 

 

“It is my recommendation that we not disclose any of these details to the public,” Mycroft added, even though he knew it would likely all be kept under wraps anyway. 

 

There were a few questions left, mostly procedural, as they had already questioned him about his relationship with Moriarty several times. He gave a facial recognition artist a description, but there was still very little information the Agency could turn up. The rest was just formality, and Mycroft was thankful when it was over. 

 

He was tired, and wanted to go home.

 

》》》

 

Everything was fuzzy when Jim finally opened his eyes. The light streaming through the white, thin inner layer of the curtains made everything look soft and yellow. 

 

He did a mental check of himself. Slightly numb, but all in tact, no major injuries, though his head was muggy.

 

A thumb ran over his knuckles and he turned his head to see Mycroft sitting beside the bed, reading a book. Fairy tales. He snorted, but it came out as a cough instead.

 

Mycroft jumped up to get him a glass of water, and he nearly whined at the loss of contact. 

 

Jim took the glass at his lips with one hand, and grabbed Mycroft’s wrist with the other. 

 

“What happened?” he rasped after draining half the glass.

 

Mycroft winced. 

 

“You hit your head when we fell through the trapdoor. Concussion. It’s been half a day,” he said. 

 

Jim groaned a bit as he settled back down against the pillows. 

 

“Why do I feel so…” he waved his hand around. Sluggish. Muggy. Disoriented. 

 

Mycroft pursed his lips. 

 

“The jump wasn’t...easy. I had no magic at the time and you, I suppose you took the brunt of it, seeing as it was an artificial dead zone, built to target live magic specifically,” he explained. 

 

What happened was this; after Mycroft discovered the cafe was emptied out, he went back to the books Jim returned once again—and noticed a page was missing from the fairy tale book.

 

It was a page from the original story, which described the burial scene. From that, Mycroft deduced the catacombs under the tower would play a significant role in whatever Jim had been planning. The rest happened without communication, and they could each only guess at the other’s motives.

 

Mycroft had been correct about James’s having figured out a grenaline formula that might conduct magic if ingested, once he deduced that the faux-guards planted within the military lineup had to have been planning something airborne.

 

Mycroft of course had to disclose Jim’s location to the Agency, and then it was a no brainer to surround the place with magic dampeners and bombs.

 

Once Mycroft showed Jim he was wearing a wire, they could only say things that would mislead his handlers.

 

I trust you, they said to each other in not so many words, and then Jim could only take a leap of faith, trusting that Mycroft’s vow not to hurt him would hold true, and evidently, it did. They had but a split second between the dampeners turning off and the bombs turning on to get out. 

 

Jim listened, eyes still guarded. Mycroft’s eyes wouldn’t meet his either, instead focusing on their joined hands.

 

It was all incredibly sweet, this star-crossed lovers thing they had going on, but it wasn’t enough, he thought. 

 

“And now what?” Jim asked in his still-hoarse voice. “I’m a fugitive and you’re still working for people who would like to see me captured, dead or alive, wouldn’t they?”

 

“What do you plan to do, Mr. Government Agent?” he asked in a whisper.

 

Maybe he would leave, and it would break Jim’s heart. He wanted to hear it anyway.

 

Mycroft hesitated for a long while, and Jim let him. Then he let go of his hand, to reach for something on the floor beneath the bed.

 

Jim’s eyes widened.

 

Mycroft pulled out a slim metal case Jim knew very well, and opened it to show a glossy, liquid-looking syringe.

 

“They think you’re dead, actually, and I plan to keep them thinking that way,” Mycroft said as prepared the needle. “I plan to go back, however…”

 

“When we searched your warehouses, this was among your things,” Mycroft said quietly. “Magic, 2%.”

 

He met Jim’s eyes then.

 

“Two and 49 make 51,” he continued. 

 

No, Jim wanted to say. He didn’t want that for Mycroft, he didn’t want that  _ life _ for Mycroft. That was the rational side of him, anyway. Because in his heart—oh, how his heart longed for it.

 

“If I do this, I can’t go back,” Mycroft guessed. Neither of them knew if it was true. There were medical cases of treating inhumans with a transfusion, failed cases, all of them. They could probably figure out a way, together, if they really tried.

 

“But I want you to trust me,” Mycroft continued. 

 

Jim wanted to laugh, but he was sure he was on the verge of crying. His eyes were stinging, but he knew he was still too dehydrated to really cry. Trust him? He already did. So much that he literally threw his life into his hands. What more did Mycroft think he could give?

 

“I hope with this, you can,” Mycroft said, and then Jim watched, stared in shock, as Mycroft jammed the needle into his vein.

 

_ Mine,  _ Jim’s mind supplied, and he reached out for Mycroft's arm.

 

》》》

 

Mycroft’s world spun as he injected the little vial that took him past the threshold of human and non-human. His vision seemed to fizz as the magic settled, and then—and then he heard a familiar voice, one he consulted once every two years, except this time it was speaking straight in his head.

  
_ Oh, now you’ve done it,  _ she purred.  _ Welcome back, brother dear.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um so. there is a sequel planned but it’s longwinded and there are still details to work out and I’m not sure how much I’m up for all that right now lol it includes way more magic and betrayal and it won’t even make sense without reading the first one idk. Like, I feel like I need to do a comedy next and reset my system. I don’t want to start something and then abandon it unfinished?? Maybe I will have to do it in vignettes? My head says ‘the plot calls for novel-length word counts!!’ and my heart says ‘can you not’


End file.
